


Title Goes Here

by elizabethdell



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, F/F, Isolation, Mystery, Slow Build, Unreliable Narrator, i'll add more when i know where this story is headed, non-canon backstory, talky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 84,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethdell/pseuds/elizabethdell
Summary: A series of events leaves the earth in dire straits, forcing humanity to retreat deep underground to escape the dangers unleashed. Years later, a rescue team uncovers a massive bunker housing one Alexandra Danvers…and not another living soul. Facing multiple counts of murder, Alex claims to not remember the incident that left her the sole survivor. Up and coming psychiatrist Dr. Maggie Sawyer is called in to determine the truth. This is the story of what happened in those long years and how Alex survived when no one else did.This one is a little bit dark, and for that I’m sorry-not-sorry. Super non-canon. Sanvers endgame but oh-so-much angst to get there.





	1. Before

The apocalypse begins with a bang, albeit one much too far from National City to be heard. More than three thousand miles away, on a small island near the equator, a small tribe known as the Owanti cover their ears and stare at the plumes of black smoke that billow into the sky. The restless mountain belches again and the smoke grows darker, fully obscuring the ever-present sun. The sudden dark causes some of the younger children to cry, while the elders mutter words to their gods.

A few hours later the mountain speaks again, this time hot lava following down its sides as the smoke plumes into the atmosphere. Giddy weathermen, thrilled at the unexpected spotlight, air the same footage shot by a British couple out for a helicopter ride over the archipelago. No mention is made of the tiny village consumed by the flames, for until today no one knew it existed. Television enthusiasm for the disaster wanes, eventually, as it becomes increasingly clear the effects of this event are more than anticipated.

The acidic ash hurled high into the atmosphere catches in the jet stream, circling the globe and raining soot as far away as the South Pole research station. In the lucky regions, the sun becomes a hazy shadow of itself; in the unlucky, it vanishes entirely.

Officials in National City scramble to reset streetlights to remain on at all hours. Budding entrepreneurs sell t-shirts on the corner of the street: _I Survived the Apocalypse and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt._ Or: _Party All Night Long!_ For the less literally inclined.

For it is indeed the perpetual night. No big deal most people think, but slowly, as the plants wither and the sheer tedium and weight of never-ending darkness grows, the implications become clear. Riots break out, the first symptoms of impending famine from the global crop failure. Still months away but by now it’s obvious the long night will not be ending anytime soon.

The wealthy purchase canned food in bulk, leading to a run at grocery stores. Shelves fall empty. Strangers die in the crowds that mob the delivery trucks, emptied before product even enters the store. The general state of chaos is why no one particularly notices when some of their neighbors begin to fall sick.

It starts simply enough. A cough. A clearing throat. A sneeze. Then more urgent coughing. Hacking. People cover their mouths and noses to avoid breathing in the contaminated air. It must be the ash they think. Perhaps it is. The early ones are lucky, for they don’t know what is to come. The blood from the lungs, the agony as their internal organs hemorrhage, and finally the rattling death.  

The earth is dark, starving, and now sick. With little to lose, setting foot outdoors becomes even more treacherous as those on the way down have no fear attacking and taking what they can from the unwary.

Slowly people vanish from the surface; disappearing in hiding or buried beneath the dirt. The soil claims all of us, and in time, the face of the earth falls silent.


	2. Discovery

“Hey!” calls a voice. “We found something!” The foreman saunters over to the pit-in-progress. The construction worker clangs his shovel against the dirt, eliciting a frown from the foreman.

“What’s under there?” he asks.

“Not sure,” responds the worker. His thick eyebrows squint into the hazy sun, lines wearing at the corners of his eyes. Carefully the foreman brushes aside the remaining dirt. The metal beneath is dark and cool to the touch. The tapping of his knuckles reverberates deeply through the steel door. No one says a word in the silent seconds that follow.

“Seems empty,” says the worker after a safe pause.

“It does.” Still crouched, the foreman studies the door. Decidedly an entrance. Almost certainly for a bunker designed to ride out the Dark Years. It’s been months since he stumbled onto one of these. Used to be at least one a week, but the frequency tapered off sharply a year ago as the last survivors got word that the surface was habitable again.

He knocks against the cool steel again. Likely whoever is in there is long dead. Nonetheless, regulations are clear on the subject. Uncovered bunkers have to be properly excavated and checked for survivors. He sighs with frustration. Another delay.

“Call someone from the city,” he says, his eyes not moving from the sealed entrance. “Let them know we found a bunker and to send a team.”

“Yes, sir.” Footsteps retreat.

The would-be opening bears a partially-obscured insignia. Cautiously the foreman pushes away the dirt, causing it to crumble into the engraved seal.

“Huh,” he says to no one in particular.

In the center of the circular bunker entrance a stylized rendering of three letters: D. E. O.

The government team arrives later that afternoon, beginning the laborious process of clearing the entrance and preparing it for decontamination. Construction workers pause to watch curiously until the foreman moves them to the far side of the project for the remainder of the day.

By nightfall, the hole around the seal is cleared and the white tent to prevent immediate entry into the environment is ready to go. The extraction squad don earplugs and, using hand signals, indicate the start of drilling. It takes a few tries, the steel appears to be lined in lead, but eventually the drill breaks through. It’s painstaking work to get the remaining slots in and finally insert the corrosive sticks that will eat away the remaining metal.

By morning, the media has gotten wind of the new find. Press and oglers press against the flimsy barrier established a hundred feet away from the excavation site. Inside the white tent, the extraction begins.

Two team members descend. Movement is difficult in their full-body suits but this bunker appears to be in good shape, with a short ladder that leads to a clear stairwell. Lights along the wall trigger automatically as they descend to the next door. It’s short work to override the electronic circuitry and unlock the final barrier.

Had anyone been present to see it, they likely would have laughed at the surprise of the two people dressed in spacesuits. Instead of opening to a modest space with a few private rooms, the door reveals a massive command center, with rows of desks facing a multiscreen. The monitors are all dark, as is the bunker in general. Low emergency lighting prevents total darkness but offers little illumination.

Corridors stretch in several directions like a flattened spider, all dark save one with a light emanating from its left side.

“What kind of heat readings are you getting?” asks one of the spacesuits.

“Low,” replies the other figure. “If there’s life down here it’s on the edges. You?”

The first one nods. “Same. Light first?”

The light slants in sideways from a room at the end. Footfalls echo against the light tile, smeared with dark streaks that would appear patterned but for the dead bodies lining the side, slumped over in full combat gear, some still clutching at the gaping holes which painted the floor. The spacesuits tighten their formation.

“We’ve got bodies,” one radios to the surface. “Violently dispatched.”

Static.

“Noted. Proceed with caution and use force as necessary.”

In unison, they turn the final corner, stunners prepared. One sighs with relief as the lab space appears empty, lowering the stunner to radio up.

“We’re all clear–”

The other suit screams.

Further in the room, more another body rests on the floor. Unlike their comrades in the corridor however, she appears restful, eyes closed. It’s only the horrible angle of the neck that gives away their condition.

“What happened here?” asks one in a low voice. The other simply shakes their head.

The search continues. All around the bunker bodies lie in twos or threes. Too many dozens to properly count. Grimly, the two continue on, no longer bothering with the stunners. Nothing in here is alive. It’s not until the second to last hallway that anything catches their attention. Echoing down the pitch black tiled tunnel, a low voice sings a wordless tune. The two excavators move slowly, approaching the room. With night vision the entire scene is lit in an eerie green, lending the figure an alien appearance. The young woman sings to another unmoving figure of similar size in her arms.

Two, signals the first one. A frown. One. The singer pauses in her tune to look up, eyes searching in the darkness. She couldn’t have heard. Definitely shouldn’t be able to see. Too quickly to properly react, she drops the body and rushes the door. The suits collide and fall to the floor, the young woman standing over them with a stunner in hand.

“Why are you here?” she demands.

“Looking for survivors,” chokes one. “Please! What happened here? Why are you…”

“Why am I what?” she demands. She flicks the stunner flicks between the two, making the spacesuits twitch like jello.

“Not dead,” says the other. “We thought everyone in here was dead.”

The weapon drops to the ground, cracking loudly against the hard floor. “What?! You’re lying.”

“No,” says the first slowly. “Everyone in here is dead except for you. What happened?”

The woman’s eyes dart back to the body in the room. Her form crumbles to the ground. “Oh my god. She’s dead,” she whispers. “She’s dead. Who killed her? Where is everyone else?” she adds with sudden panic.

The two exchange a glance. “Let’s get you out of here.”

In the tent they administer a sedative to knock her out before airlifting her to a hospital. Fifty-eight body bags parade out after her. The area is cordoned off for further investigation.

Dental records reveal her identity. Alexandra Danvers. Formerly employed by a non-descript research company operating out of National City. Physically, patient Danvers appears to be in near-perfect health, especially considering her long confinement. Psychologically…

“What can you tell us about the bunker?” staff ask.

The question elicits panic. She doesn’t remember. Or pretends to not remember, some whisper. Rumors begin quickly. About how she mumbles in her sleep, and the way she twists her plastic utensils in her hands as if contemplating using them as weapons. The extractors recount how confidently she handled the stunner. Her uncanny eyesight in the dark.

_The only one to make it out alive? You know what that must mean…_

One day her distress becomes so great that she dislocates a shoulder fighting against her restraints. The investigation remains ongoing, media interest stronger than ever with only a single survivor. A day after the dislocation an attorney arrives at the hospital.

“You have no valid reason to hold her,” he says. And the hospital cannot argue. There are no charges and patient Danvers is physically healthy.

The charges arrive a week later. The attorney negotiates to place her in a restricted space. Prison is no place for someone that has spent the last five years underground. The Danvers family estate in Midvale lends an air of respectability. It’s an easy arrangement to make with the understanding judge.

People come and go to get the space ready until finally, Alex is left alone. The old house smells of dust and the stale air of doors left too long closed. She enjoys spending time on the large back porch, the furthest she can go before the monitor on her ankle beginning to vibrate in warning.

This is where she is one morning, letting the dewy sun warm her, even as the chilly breeze draws out goosepimples, when someone new arrives.

“Hello Alex. May I join you?”

Slowly Alex pulls her gaze away from the vista of pine trees. The woman puts on a practiced smile, warm and non-judgmental. It’s not a real smile though, because the edges of her eyes don’t crinkle, but instead watch Alex closely, seeming to darken in color as they mentally record her reaction.

Goddamn shrinks.

Alex doesn’t respond, but instead turns back toward the trees, closing her eyes with a sigh, as if it would all just float away.

Footfalls indicate the good doctor has taken her silence as acceptance. A chair scrapes across the wooden deck.

“My name is Dr. Maggie Sawyer,” the woman says, voice much nearer. “I’d like to talk about your time in the bunker.” She pauses, revealing the barest hint of uncertainty. “We don’t have to talk today. I understand you’ve been through a lot. But if it’s ok, I’d like to sit here with you. I will come back tomorrow, and the next day and the day after that. And whenever you’re ready…Well, that’s when we’ll begin.”

And with that, Dr. Maggie Sawyer reclines in the chair, closes her eyes, and for the next hour shivers in the morning sun beside Alex Danvers, sole survivor of the bunker massacre.


	3. Observation

For three days I observe her routine, identical each morning.

“Hello Alex. How are you feeling today?”

Shrug.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

No response. The chair is now in place so at least I’m spared the rough dragging noise. I think about moving my chair after she leaves, making her chase me around the deck, but it’s my favorite spot, half in sun and half in shade, and it doesn’t seem fair that I should have to move.

Then she sits. For the first five minutes I feel her eyes turn towards me regularly, like a clock making its rounds. The check-ins slow until she finally closes her eyes, although she remains alert to any sound that would indicate I’m restless. She’s good. Most people tend to assume that my silence means lack of awareness. But I wear my silence as a shield. I use it to cover my own observations, to lure others into complacency. It’s amazing the conversations people will have while I’m right there, assuming I’m not listening. Dr. Sawyer at least seems sharper than that. Of course, the staff hired to care for the house steer clear when she’s around.

After the first day she brings a jacket, wrapping it tightly around her small frame. She seems uncertain on the fourth day, the first one with rain, but takes her seat beside me following our usual exchange. I count off the seconds until there are only five minutes remaining in her vigil. She’s shivering even with the jacket. It’s a good time to toss her a morsel.

“Who are you here for?”

Dr. Sawyer’s eyes flutter open, miserable contemplation forgotten.

“I’m here for you, Alex,” she replies.

Doesn’t miss a beat this one.

“Defense or prosecution?” The pines sway slightly in the gray mist. Darker clouds line the horizon. This afternoon will be even nastier.

“I was hired by your attorney,” she admits. “But my main objective is not the trial. I’m here to help you through this, Alex. To help you remember and process what happened. It’s clear you’ve been through a great trauma.” Her voice is gentle, coaxing. She tilts her head to the side as she speaks, half-smile revealing a dimple. I wonder how many hours she spent in front of the mirror perfecting that look. Not exactly friendly but not distant either. The look that says _you can trust me, it will all be ok if you trust me_. The look of a confidant. I bet it breaks a lot of people.

I tilt my head back so the misty rain coats my eyelids. Decisions, decisions. The rain streaks down my cheeks in an approximation of tears.

For the first time, I take in Dr. Sawyer directly, biting the ends of my hair as do so. It’s an affectation I learned from Sam. I can easily imagine her pulling it off much more convincingly than I do but it seems to work now. Dr. Sawyer’s expression brightens with interest. The rain has flattened her normally wavy hair. She’s shorter than I realized. If we stood up I’d probably tower over her by a couple inches. All the better that we are seated and the height discrepancy is less noticeable.

“I told them already,” I say. “I don’t remember.”

Dr. Sawyer leans against her armrest. “It will come,” she says. The rain begins to pick up, pelting in sideways. Squinting, she raises a hand to block the assault. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you want to try?”

Still biting my hair, I regard Dr. Sawyer. Steam wafts from her neck, the cool mist contrasting with her body heat. They all want to know about the bunker when it’s the one thing I don’t want to think about. Can’t think about.

“Ok,” I say.

Her eyes brighten and for a moment she appears to have forgotten her damp state. “Wonderful. I will see you then Alex.” She peers at the darkening sky. “Perhaps inside.”

 

_Case notes of Dr. Margaret Sawyer_

Background: Subject name Alexandra Danvers (AD). Recently extracted from a bunker with fifty-eight dead bodies. All victims appear to have perished within the final weeks prior to the bunker’s discovery via violent means. AD was found in a state of apparent confusion, singing to one of the corpses (still unidentified). She expresses no memory of the inciting incident and responds poorly to questioning. As the sole survivor, she has been charged with fifty-eight counts of murder. Evidence for the state is entirely circumstantial, yet, reasonably plausible and supported by the extraction team’s first encounter. Conviction is likely. Regardless of AD’s guilt or innocence a full psychiatric evaluation has been requested to determine whether any refuting evidence can be provided and/or if upon conviction a plea should be made for incarceration in the state hospital.

Given past failure of attempts to speak with AD, I have adopted a slow approach, waiting for the subject willingly open conversation. I have thus far visited the subject three times in residence. She appears nearly catatonic, opting to sit outside regardless of the weather with no apparent discomfort. Staff inform me that she spends most of her day in this location, stirring only when the sky grows dark. My efforts appear to be paying off for today she spoke a few words and indicated a willingness to open dialogue. My next step will be to determine the extent of her memory loss and truth thereof.

I speculate, at this time, that the recency of the event is the likely reason for continued shock and amnesic state. This was almost certainly exacerbated by the unforgiving treatment she received following extraction. One must also consider the possibility that AD has no memory loss but is simply an accomplished actor. Tests must be conducted to ensure she is of sound mind and holds a clear understanding of moral rights and wrongs. As seen in countless examples of those during the Dark Years, isolation can have profound impact on one’s moral compass.

Promisingly, the subject appears on the verge of opening dialogue. While the process cannot be rushed, expediency is critical to understanding the situation prior to trial and/or establishing a plea.

 

 The rain continues the next day, too heavy to sit on the deck. I set myself in the ironically named sunroom instead, watching the rain pelt against the glass. The change throws a slight kink in our established routine.

“Hello Alex. How are you feeling today?”

The rain continues its steady rhythm. A pause while Dr. Sawyer assess the situation.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

She opts for the chair facing opposite the couch. A small table rests between our positions. I hear items being shuffled out of the way. She wants an unobstructed view. I take care to hold my face away with an even gaze.

“Do you like the rain?” asks Dr. Sawyer.

 _Reign_. I’m taken back to our first meeting, so many years ago, the rushed day in which we sealed the door, closing ourselves off to the outside world indefinitely. Of course she wasn’t Reign then, just mousy Sam, easy to overlook. But when she transformed…that was something else. No one could overlook her then. Those smoky eyes sparkled with passion and life. How odd it was to see her lifeless, eyes still open, neck twisted at that horrible angle. A gaze so alive and yet stilled by something as common, as ordinary, as death. _Do I like the Reign?_ Just as soon ask if I like oxygen. There is no like or dislike when something is necessary, essential to what we consider life. But I don’t say any of that. As far as she’s concerned there is no Reign, there never was. Only the rain composed of two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen, and a negligible but measurable part ash.

“Yes, I do.”

“What do you like about it?”

So many ways to go with this one. I know the one she hopes I choose. Memories of the bunker. Being outside versus the enclosed space beneath the ground.

“It feels clean,” I say. “Like standing in the shower. Only no one yells at you to hurry up because you might use all the water.” It’s not a lie.

Across the room I hear Dr. Sawyer shift in her chair. This isn’t how she wants our conversation to go. She prods for an opening but I hold steady. I’m not much in the mood for talking now that she’s here. I’m feeling crowded with another person in my vicinity. Years underground will do that to a person. The sensing of another living creature nearby becomes honed, you attune to the energies that move about a space. Done correctly it can provide balance, allowing for the ebb and flow, ups and downs necessary to feel alive. Once unbalanced however, well, it’s damn near impossible to recover. Closeness breeds all manner of irritations, heightens every feeling until…well, until something snaps.

Dr. Sawyer shifts again. The problem is that we are inherently imbalanced. I am Alex Danvers, patient and accused criminal. She is Dr. Sawyer, esteemed psychiatric expert of such and such probably with a wall of diplomas and honors in an office somewhere in the nice part of town. She thinks she has the power to control this encounter, but it’s her that wants something from me. Funny how power runs both ways.

“What was it like for you?” I ask.

The shifting noise ceases.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

Her expression is genuinely perplexed.

“The Dark Years,” I say. “Do you remember your time then?”

She frowns. This isn’t how these sessions are supposed to go. I’ve broken the first rule of psychology which is that the patient never asks the questions.

“I do,” she says carefully. “Though it was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

In spite of myself I’m interested. When did the Dark Years end? How much extra time did I spend below the earth’s crust? Is it possible we all could have been saved? Strangely no one has thought to share this information with me. I presume they believed me too incapacitated.

“A few years.”

She’s hedging. Hoping to close off this line of questioning but that only piques my interest further. Tit for tat, good doctor.

“When?”

She finally meets my eyes.

“This isn’t why we’re here.”

“Isn’t it all related?”

That earns an eyebrow. Oh really, doctor. Can you not see the connection?

“Explain,” she says.

Good. For a moment I feared all might be lost, that Dr. Sawyer wouldn’t be half as sharp as promised.

“First tell me about your time during the Dark Years.”

Dr. Sawyer’s jaw tenses. I have the upper hand here. She’s too desperate for something, even if it means breaking the second rule of psychology: never share your own experiences with the subject. Involuntarily she glances towards the door, closed just enough to afford privacy while allowing those passing by to note that all is aboveboard in our interaction.

“It’s really nothing of interest,” Dr. Sawyer says. “The standard story.”

“Then it shouldn’t take long,” I reply. What started as simple curiosity has morphed into something much stronger. She re-crosses her legs and I can practically see her mind spinning, trying to divine a way out of this corner. She releases a breath silently.

“When the panic began I followed government instructions and was lucky enough to be placed in an official bunker,” Dr. Sawyer says. Her words emerge at a clipped pace, like the walk of someone guilty trying to move casually with the crowd. “It was unremarkable. I resided there for three and a half years until we received word that testing on the surface had been successful.”

She shrugs before refocusing her attention on me. Her embarrassment is palpable.

“Unremarkable?” I ask. “You were accustomed to life in a bunker?”

“No. But I adjusted. As everyone had to.”

“Doesn’t mean you liked it.”

Dr. Sawyer is decidedly uncomfortable now. I’m closing in on personal territory.

“You promised to explain what you meant,” Dr. Sawyer says. “How is my experience related to what you went through?”

“You said it yourself, doctor. We all had to adjust.”

“Was the adjustment difficult for you?”

“Yes and no.” I don’t bother to explain any further and after a minute, Dr. Sawyer appears to give up hope that I will continue.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” she says. “Tell me about this house. It’s where you grew up, correct?”

“That’s right.”

The wallpaper is peeling near the ceiling. Against the opposite walls scuffs mar the fading paint. A million imperfections that I’m just now noticing. My fingers twist around the edge of the couch, the rough, soothing fabric scratchy against the skin.

“My parents moved here when I was six. But I don’t remember the other house so this has always been home for me.”

The sound of the rain against the glass is hypnotic and I feel myself slipping into the past, before all of this.


	4. Beginnings

I have no memories of the time before I was about seven years old. I assume those years were the same as most young children, filled with scraped knees and crayons.

The first memory I have, the first time I realized _this is life_ , that I was a living thing swept up in the stream of time, was in my first grade class at Midvale Elementary. We were being placed into reading groups based upon skill level, but the teacher used colors instead of numbers, perhaps believing that we would think the groups arbitrary. I was placed in green group, with the mediocre readers.

I remember coming home that night, fuming. My mother asked me what was wrong and I told her I was never going to be the best if I couldn’t even make it into the blue reading group. I’ll never forget what she said. She stopped what she was doing, placed both hands on my shoulders and said, this is your chance to prove she was wrong. I never liked reading before but I started a habit of reading every night before bed. Two weeks later I was moved into the blue group. That’s when I learned that life was all about struggle; that nothing would be handed to me.

That lesson in hand, I excelled at everything. What I lacked talent I made up for in persistence. I was too stubborn to fail. I reveled in my status as a golden child that could do no wrong. While classmates had strained relationships with their parents I considered my mother and father my best friends. I often wondered why other kids found it so difficult. But it’s easy to like your parents when you can do no wrong. I was in high school when that changed.

My father worked for the same company I do now: the DEO. They conduct research in a variety of fields and my father specialized in the arms division. I’m not quite sure what he did for them, but his work often took him to different parts of the world where he would come across all manner of people in need. On one of these trips he brought someone back. She was so small, so afraid, I remember when he stood there with his arm around her shoulders she didn’t say a word, just looked at the ground with tears in her eyes that never fell.  

My father introduced her as Kara. Her parents had died and I think he felt responsible in some way. I know he asked to be transferred out of the arms division shortly after, a request that was denied.

My parents adopted Kara and I went from being the apple of their eye to the surly teenager that never quite measured up. Kara was only three years younger than me, but it seemed like a wider margin, for when she first came to live with us she was tiny and underweight. I suppose it was her diminutive stature, but I was tasked with protecting her and making sure she got settled at school.

Testing placed her in my grade, an indignity that did not endear her to me. Add to that the fact that despite her size she was freakishly strong and a natural athlete. I felt my special status slipping away all too quickly. My mother railed on me constantly, it seemed unless I stood by my adopted sister’s side at all moments I was failing. My father grew increasingly distant over this time, working longer hours and drinking heavily on the rare evenings he was home. It became difficult to get more than a few words out of him at a time. He went on another one of his work trips, and this time, he didn’t come back. His trips sometimes ran long, so at first we didn’t worry.

I continued to watch Kara, although she had very little need of my protection. One day during gym class she trounced all the boys in a footrace. The instructor sent Kara home with a pamphlet for the track team. That evening my mother dragged me into her bedroom and screamed at me for a solid ten minutes. She shredded the flier into a hundred tiny squares. They fluttered from her thin hands like the feathers from a bird snagged mid-flight. Kara could not be allowed to set herself apart like that, she demanded. She needed to fit in. That was my job. Why hadn’t I stopped her?

It didn’t make sense to me at the time. Why should I care if Kara wanted to show off? I was disappearing under her spotlight, no longer the smartest, strongest, or fastest. It’s hard to care about much when you feel as if you’re slowly vanishing into someone else’s shadow. Had things continued as usual, our fight would have likely been protracted with weeks of icy silences. But death has a way of changing things.

After my father had been gone for a month my mother began to fidget and nitpick more. His absence might be partially to blame for our huge fight. The DEO sent the head of HR to our house. At dinnertime no less. I’ll never forget the way my mother’s eyes blinked a little too rapidly when the bell rang. Dinner was a strict affair in our house. No books, no phones, no interruptions allowed. For as long as it took everyone to clear their plate my mother enforced polite and banal conversation.

Protocol dictated that we should all ignore the door, but my mother slid her chair back immediately. That simple act of breaking such a longstanding rule warned me that something was very, very wrong. My stomach knotted and the air grew thick and heavy, difficult to breathe. Subconsciously I think I knew then, even before my mother returned to the table, her face drained of blood.

In her hands she held a tiny box which they told us contained the remains of my father. Apparently, the only way they could return him to the States was by cremating and sending the ashes. But I always wondered. There was nothing of my father’s big, boisterous personality in the pale ash. Not a hint of his infectious laugh, or the dimple in his chin that always gave away when he was teasing. Those ashes could have been anyone, or anything, really. It was possible he was still alive, fighting his way back to us.

The remains were so out of proportion to the space he occupied in my mind that I formed a second theory. If these were in fact his remains and he was dead, the death must have been a gruesome one, leaving only a portion of his body and a desire on the part of the DEO to burn away the evidence. They never told us how he died and for some reason my mother never asked. Maybe she suspected the same as I did, but preferred to imagine something better.

The unknowing tormented me. At night I would lay awake, a parade of questions marching through my head. Was he alone? Was it sudden? Those final seconds…were they peaceful? What thoughts crossed his mind? I reached across the globe with my mind, feeling my way for some sign of his presence, some hint of his energy. He never answered.

 

I pause my recitation. Dr. Sawyer takes a moment to note the pause, the gentle scratching of her pen ceasing a few seconds later.

“What did they do with the dead bodies?” I ask.

“Excuse me?”

“The ones in the bunker.” Really doctor, try to keep up. “What did they do with them?”

Dr. Sawyer frowns.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “Autopsied I suppose to determine cause of death.”

She’s cautious, all too aware that we are treading close to trial territory, not wanting to reveal anything that could compromise a potential conviction. Don’t worry doctor, I would never compromise your integrity.

“But after that,” I say. “Were the bodies buried or burned?” Or maybe kept in the morgue freezer.

“Is that important?”

You’d think she’d know by now that I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I look Dr. Sawyer straight in the eyes. She blinks at the unexpected challenge, breaking contact after a few seconds.

“I can check,” she says. Danvers – 1, Sawyer – 0.

Dr. Sawyer’s mind spins, debating whether or not to pursue this line of questioning I’ve opened regarding the bunker. In the end she decides to wait. Such caution. I have to admire her restraint.

“It sounds like your father’s death hit you pretty hard,” Dr. Sawyer says.

“His disappearance,” I correct. Technically the questions that haunted my youth remain unanswered. Nothing has ever confirmed his death. Dr. Sawyer’s eyebrow lifts. She’s unsure whether I’m being facetious. Outside the wind has picked up, tossing the rain messily against the glass.

After that visit from the DEO, my mother became even more protective of Kara. I suppose Kara was the last grand gesture my father would ever make, a last reminder of him. It made me more protective of her as well.

I don’t say any of this aloud though. My throat is raw from disuse and the story I’ve already shared.

Dr. Sawyer’s notebook closes with a gentle plopping sound as the air rushes out from between the pages. Her fingertip strokes the leather binding. I don’t need to see her to imagine the expression of concentration on her face.

“I assume you haven’t spoken much about your father’s…disappearance to anyone.”

“I assume you’re referring to people such as yourself, doctor.” The use of her academic title catches her off guard. In the dim reflection against the glass Dr. Sawyer frowns.

 “Doctor?” she repeats.

“That’s what you are.”

“Yes, but…” She clears her throat. “In here, during these sessions you can call me Maggie.”

Very nice. _Don’t think of me as your psychiatrist but as a friend_. As if I could forget that every word I speak in being recorded and analyzed, potentially used to determine my guilt in what is surely one of the most sensational trials of the past several years.  

“Alright, Maggie,” I say, letting the name roll around my mouth. Maggie. Short for Margaret, a name derived from the French meaning pearl. Dr. Sawyer is thus named after a gemstone formed from a trapped irritation. How appropriate seeing as I’m trapped in her grip, unable to avoid these court-mandated therapy sessions. I wonder how Dr. Sawyer would feel about my name suggesting I am the defender of mankind. Irony abounds.

Dr. Sawyer smiles. “I look forward to continuing our conversation tomorrow,” she says.

“I’ll see you then, Maggie.”

 

_Case notes of Dr. Margaret Sawyer_

Following an acclimation period, AD appears willing to engage in conversation, spending most of our session today discussing her early years. Occasional references indicate awareness of the bunker though I sense continued unwillingness to speak about the experience directly. AD expresses a fascination with death worth exploring, citing her first experience as a teenager in which her father died on the job from unknown causes. She appears of the belief that he may still be alive, albeit unheard from in the past ten years.

Her unwillingness to concede his death contrasts strikingly with her acute awareness of the dead found in the bunker. She appeared curious as to their current state while remaining emotionally removed, suggesting some ongoing amount of dissociation. In future sessions I shall try to determine the extent of her delusional thinking on death as well as whether the recent dissociation is intentional or subconscious in nature.

AD indicated an inherent suspicion of doctors, so henceforth I have asked her to refer to me by first name, and for staff to introduce me as such. I am hoping that the informality will decrease her resistance to sharing, leading to more productive discussion in the future.

Time remains of the utmost importance. I hope to soon explore AD’s relationship with her adopted sister, Kara Danvers. Kara Danvers’ name appears on the bunker’s manifest but she has not been identified from the fifty-eight victims.


	5. Kara

The attorney sounds skeptical on the phone when Dr. Sawyer calls, but he is willing to share what he knows about the ongoing case. The bodies remain in holding at the morgue. A few have releases pending from family members but as most are unclaimed they will likely be held until after the trial. The sister remains unidentified. His tone drops to a hush. How is Alex holding up? Any new information that could help reduce the charges further? Dr. Sawyer promises to report back after her session.

 

“Good morning Alex. How are you feeling today?”

I squint into the sun. The neighboring chair squeaks as Dr. Sawyer settles into place.

“I was hoping we could pick up our conversation from the other day,” she says. “Maybe you could tell me a bit more about Kara?” The sunlight behind my eyelids glows red and gold. It’s all too easy to imagine Kara spinning in the sun. I don’t trust my voice to speak. The silence lengthens.

“It’s obvious you have a far more active mind than people give you credit for,” Dr. Sawyer remarks in a neutral tone that ignores her previous question. “I imagine being restricted to this house is boring for you.”

Bored enough to talk to you I suppose.

“Sometimes.”

“What kinds of things do you enjoy doing? Perhaps I can help.”

Fighting. Shooting at things. Driving fast. Drinking whiskey. I have a feeling Dr. Sawyer would frown at those particular hobbies. But her willingness to accommodate me can be helpful.

“In the bunker I managed the farm,” I say. I crane my neck towards the space overlooked by the deck. “I used to help my father in our garden. Right down there.”

“Maybe you could pick that up again,” Dr. Sawyer says. “We can hold our sessions in the garden.”

“It’s out of range.”

“Excuse me?”

I kick my left leg, tugging the pant up. The ankle monitor flashes green indicating I’m in the clear. Dr. Sawyer makes a note on her pad.

“I’ll speak to the court,” she says. “I’m sure we can get the range extended a bit.”

Dr. Sawyer’s gaze contains expectation. Tit for tat. I can play too.

“Why do you want to know about Kara?” I ask.

“Family is important,” Dr. Sawyer replies. “How we interact with family informs our view of the world, it’s where we learn how to interact with others. We’ve discussed your parents. But you haven’t told me much about Kara.”

Not exactly true. But no need to let the good doctor know this is sensitive territory.

“There’s not much to say about Kara. She returned with my father from a trip, I don’t know where, and lived with our family from that point on.”

“You mentioned that your mother expected you to protect her.”

“Yes.”

“And how was that following the death…disappearance of your father?”

Nice catch. “Do you have siblings Dr. Sawyer?”

“Please call me Maggie.”

“Do you have siblings?” I ask again.

Dr. Sawyer purses her lips. “I do not,” she says.

An only child. Placed in an official government bunker during the Dark Years. Dr. Sawyer has really lived the life of privilege. Her discomfort indicates that she knows it. Or at least knows that her admission is yet another thing that sets us apart.

“Parents still alive?” I ask. “Loved ones?” Her fingers bear no rings. I’m guessing parents alive, but distant for she doesn’t flinch at the mention. She’s probably never had to protect another human being in all her years.

“Your sister Kara,” Dr. Sawyer replies. “Were you close?” No dice. Dr. Sawyer holds firm. I release a misty breath to cover my grin. Alright doctor alone-in-the-world. I’ll talk about Kara.

 

Kara and I were as close as siblings are, which is to say at times very close and at others nothing more than strangers with shared parents. When she first arrived, I was too affronted at her presence to care much about looking out for her. Despite having plenty of space, my parents forced us to share a room. We were both unhappy and would regularly sneak out only for the other one to report the transgression. After a couple weeks of this we reached a détente. We kept our nocturnal comings and goings a secret from our parents, while never missing an opportunity to hold our insider knowledge over the other’s head.

But when you share a room with anyone you can’t help but get to know them rather intimately. At some point she learned my secrets and I slowly became aware of hers. Hostility faded into distrust and finally into a kind of tentative understanding, though I wouldn’t have called us close at this point. We put on the show for my parents of closeness. Whenever I went out with friends Kara came. As soon as we were away she would split, off to spend time with whomever. But when my father disappeared that all changed.

I scarcely saw my mother for two days after the DEO came to our door with their condolences and that small wooden box. I suspect she didn’t want us to see her grieving. But with no one else to turn to, Kara and I had only each other.

Having lost her parents, Kara knew what I was going through. When I acted out and broke her favorite CD she didn’t yell at me, but made me tea. All I wanted was for this person to get mad. Maybe to even hurt me. Something that would give me an excuse for all the pain I felt inside. I wanted a concrete injury I could poke and prod, a physical manifestation of those feelings.

I don’t cry often, but I cried when Kara brought me that cup of tea. She held me for as long as it took to pass and then we talked.

In the weeks that followed we talked about everything and nothing. No detail was too mundane yet for some reason we never discussed the biggest loss in our lives. Kara knew about the intense cramps that preceded my period, about the one test I failed in college, and the time I got so drunk the cops picked me up, puking on the side of the road.

 

I kick my feet onto the wooden railing, slipping down in my seat. The ankle monitor blinks several times in warning. I’m on the edge of my invisible cage. Dr. Sawyer glances down towards the abandoned garden.

“It sounds like Kara meant a lot to you.” Past tense. Not nice, doctor.

“She’s my best friend. I’d do anything for her.” Dr. Sawyer grimaces. She knows I’m baiting her. All the better. Today is not the day for subtlety.

A pause stretches between us. Dr. Sawyer’s pen scratches against the page of her notebook. The dimple on her cheek gives her expression a rather smug appearance. The placid neutrality is gone. She’s fighting to keep her temper.  

“I imagine it was difficult for you when she died.” Her tone is so nonchalant and the shift to death so sudden that it throws me.

“What?”

“Kara,” Dr. Sawyer says. “How did she die?”

Dr. Sawyer has pulled the ground out from beneath my feet and all I can do is stare. Grey clouds the corners of my vision, the center occupied with flickers of my sister falling, grasping onto the mirrored counter, clutching her side, and the final stillness. But there is nothing before that. It’s all brown and grey. I blink and the flickers of damaged memory fade. The world spins and I grasp the armrests of the chair tightly, afraid I might fall.

“I don’t know.”

The sickening dizziness fades. I focus on the wavy lines of the wood, urging my breakfast to stay down.

“Tell me more about Kara.”

And so passes the rest of the hour. I tell Dr. Sawyer about leaving for separate colleges, and the way we would fall asleep with cell phones tucked under our heads, chatting until one of us nodded off. Dr. Sawyer takes half-hearted notes, but it’s easy to see her attention lies elsewhere. I don’t care. I can tell stories about Kara for days. All I need is time. And just the smallest amount of help from Dr. Sawyer.

After she leaves I watch the wind blow through the pines before heading inside. Under the bed in my parent’s room are the photo books from my youth. I don’t want to smudge the cellophane cover so my finger just hoovers above the photograph. Kara is already my height but with her head leaning on my shoulder I still appear taller. My grin is awkward and nervous, as befits a freshman at her first day of school. Our old car forms the background. Minutes after this photo Kara and I would part for the first extended period of time as we attended our respective universities. After college we would both move to National City, not to be separated again until things in the bunker went all wrong.

Kara smiles at me through the years and I wonder: where do the dead go?

 

Maggie moves uncertainly through the Danvers foyer. For as many days as she’s been coming out to this podunk town, Alex Danvers has yet to walk her to the front door. Maggie always leaves feeling slightly like an intruder taking an illegal shortcut. The hope is to make it out without attracting attention, but in this house, someone is always watching.

Alex’s attorney has hired a small crew of staff to ensure the house is kept clean and hot meals are prepared. Where he gets the money to hire a private psychiatrist and army of staff Maggie would love to know. But the checks keep clearing and so here she is, slinking through the foyer again, today to be caught by Nina. The laundress glares at Maggie, or maybe that’s just her imagination. Maggie flips up the collar of her jacket, slipping out the front door before she can be trapped in any kind of conversation.

She adjusts the temperature inside the car, reveling in the ability to set it warm enough to remove the jacket. Silently the car pulls out of the drive. Maggie resists the urge to look back and see if Alex is watching from her position on the back deck. Once on the highway that will take her back to National City, Maggie begins her reflection process.

“Phone, open transcription app,” she says. The screen flickers to life, flashing to indicate readiness.

“Case notes for Dr. Margaret Sawyer,” she begins.

 

_The subject continues to test her limits and appears to take joy in provoking. I suspect the difficulty comes from her isolation and limited activities. She expressed some interest in the garden, a request I’d like to take to the court as her ankle monitor currently prohibits her from accessing that part of the property. So long as the subject remains open to speaking I would like to show goodwill by providing her with such simple benefits._

_Today’s discussion focused on her adopted sister Kara. She speaks of Kara with great fondness. I asked directly about the bunker and Kara’s death. Notably we have no evidence of the death of Kara Danvers but the suggestion brought forth substantial panic. Possibly Kara Danvers died early in the bunker years which would account for her not being among the fifty-eight found victims yet in the manifest._

But not accounting for zero record of that death in their daily log, Maggie notes privately.

 

_AD’s intense response supports her claims of memory loss or at least substantial confusion regarding the final weeks in the bunker. I would like to continue moving AD through the timeline, understanding how she came to be in the bunker with Kara and the others, perhaps offering some clues as to what ultimately happened._

Maggie licks her lips, contemplating any additional conclusions. So far she’s got nothing. A lot of background on Alex’s childhood and early years. Stories about her family, all rose-colored through the lens of time, for surely they can’t all have been so…optimistic. As described by Alex these relationships tethered her and provided support. What Maggie needs to know is the Alex without support. _The one like you._

The unanswered questions tip-toe around Maggie. Given the choice, Alex would bring back every member of her family. What must that feel like? At the same point in her life Maggie couldn’t wait to get away. During the Dark Years she sent a cursory email to her parents but otherwise scarcely thought of them. Not that any of this is relevant to Alex’s case. In an hour she’ll be back in her apartment in National City. The fridge is empty so she’ll probably end up ordering takeout from the Thai place next door. _Pathetic_.

“End transcription,” Maggie says. “And create a reminder to call home.”


	6. Sam

The next day Dr. Sawyer doesn’t go straight to her chair but shifts from foot to foot until she can’t contain it any longer.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says. She leads me down to the garden, fairly beaming with pride at having made this simple thing happen for me. I thank her with an effusiveness I don’t feel. I’ve had to fake expertise before but I hope for both our sakes she knows as little about gardening as I do. The trees just beyond beckon me but I can be sure my ankle monitor won’t let me that far. So instead I sink to my knees and run my hands through the damp soil. I’ll test the full extent of my new range later, just so I know. But the garden should be far enough.

Dr. Sawyer brings down a chair and we begin our session. It’s a relief to have something to do with my hands even if I’m pretty sure I’m causing more damage than good.

“I believe yesterday you were talking about your college years,” Dr. Sawyer says. “Shall we continue there?”

The joy of being in the grass and dirt, feeling free of all walls overcomes me and I laugh. Dr. Sawyer tilts her head in that practiced manner, dimple showing. Her good deed has her in fine spirits as well.

“College was the first time Kara and I were apart for an extended time. But it’s also where I met Sam.”

“Sam?” repeats Dr. Sawyer.

“My first love.”

“Ah. Tell me about Sam. How did you meet him?”

“Her,” I correct. “Samantha Arias.”

The tips of Dr. Sawyer’s ears pink. “Her.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Dr. Sawyer is a mixed bag for sure. Other than the long hair which she regularly wears down, she’s got basic but stylish apparel, practical shoes, short unpolished nails, and no jewelry. Not that these signs are ever a sure thing, but certainly suggestive. Her embarrassment is just icing on the cake. And the fact that she made the incorrect assumption to begin with…well, I’ve been there before.

 

We were assigned as freshman year roommates. We did not take to each other for the first several weeks. Sam was so quiet. Studious while I preferred to go out. She was prone to panicking over schoolwork, a habit I found annoying. She reminded me of a small bird, flitting here and there, her tiny bones and manner of jutting her head when she read. But when I bombed my first test, Sam was there. She didn’t judge, simply began to pepper our infrequent conversation with little tidbits about physics. I was too embarrassed to ask for help, but she pretended to have trouble with one of our problem sets and asked if I would work on it with her. I said yes. I told myself it was out of pity for her and not because I was in danger of failing yet another test. I think she was lonely.

Sam’s entire face lit up when I agreed. She hopped out of her chair and sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing on the end of her pencil, a bit of hair caught at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were an ordinary enough brown, but they would darken into molten chocolate when she was particularly engaged in thought. In those moments it was hard to look away. Her birdlike demeanor would change into something far more powerful and confident. In those moments she became the one in charge and I was mesmerized, the baby bird helpless without her guidance.

Despite our differences we became friends. I think in Sam I found something similar to the closeness I held with Kara. Something that wasn’t jealous of time spent away, needy, or demanding. It just was. We had each other’s backs and while Sam tutored me through physics and calculus I made sure that she didn’t miss everything about her college experience. I introduced her to people and encouraged her to join some clubs. We balanced well.

I’d never been a physically affectionate person, but as we got to know each other Sam would often cuddle close to me. In the winter she started sleeping in my bed, claiming that she was cold all alone. To be fair, our room could get quite chilly.

One night I woke up with my face just inches from hers. Moonlight poured through the window. It must have been a full moon for it was intensely bright, much too bright for me to fall asleep again. But Sam had thrown her leg over mine, so I couldn’t get up to lower the curtain without waking her.

I watched her sleep for hours, studied every curve and line on her face and the strangest feeling came over me. Her skin looked so soft. From the heat between our bodies I could smell her soap mixed with her natural body odor. Every couple seconds she breathed against my cheek. Her leg twitched from a dream and in that moment I leaned forward and kissed her.

The kiss landed between her lips and cheek on the corner of her mouth. The edge of her lips were dry but soft. I’d never kissed lips like that before. I desperately wanted to repeat the maneuver but I was terrified of waking her and also ashamed of what I’d done. As soon as Sam turned, I crept away, back to my own cold bed.

I must have slept for the next thing I remember is Sam humming under her breath as she dressed. With eyes half-closed I watched her, that sense of shame pervading my body again. At this point we’d both changed in front of each other dozens of times, but this felt different, as if I’d intruded upon a personal moment. I knew something had shifted in myself but I wasn’t sure what. Sam caught me watching and bounded over, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“You left me last night,” she faux pouted.

“You were too hot,” I retorted, a sentence whose multiple meanings I realized only after I’d said it. Sam stroked my hair.

“I had a lovely dream,” she said. Her eyes turned that deep chocolate color. All I could hear was my heart pounding _she knows she knows_. Knows what I wasn’t sure. Knows that I tried something last night as she slept. Knows that I see her in a new light, that I want to know how the freckles across her nose taste, how her fingers would feel in my mouth. I couldn’t breathe, waiting for Sam to finish her thought. But instead of saying anything, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“What was that?” I asked. I’m afraid my tone probably sounded a bit sharper than I had any right to. At the unspoken accusation Sam flushed red.

“Just…you’re a good friend,” she said. “Thank you.”

Seeing how much I hurt her I propped myself up and pulled her head in to kiss her cheek. If I reciprocated she would know that she had done nothing wrong. It was me that was wrong, me that needed to be fixed.

But once my lips touched her skin, once I smelled her up close, I couldn’t seem to stop. Our cheeks rubbed and mouths came closer, Sam’s breath hot and rough. Our lips smashed together in a manner that was anything but romantic, but that didn’t matter. I wanted her and by some strange miracle she wanted me too.

For weeks I told myself that it was just Sam. Who could not fall in love with her? I wasn’t gay I told myself. Just in love with my best friend. It was Sam that convinced me to come out to my family. She told me she’d spent too long in life pretending to be something other than herself to do it again. Of course, I assumed that meant she’d known she was gay, but no, Sam simply meant living to please others by pretending to be more outgoing or less interested in school.

I told Kara first and the moments the words passed my lips I remember thinking, _of course_. So much about me made sense then, like the way I deflected relationships in high school under the pretense of watching Kara. Kara was amazing about it which gave me the confidence to tell my mother a few days later. Letting friends know was easiest of all, I simply had to be myself around Sam. They got the picture soon enough.

Looking back, I think that was the happiest time of my life. Sam and I shared everything and for a time college was an easy respite between life with my mother and the real world. I often wonder what would have happened if Sam hadn’t gotten sick.

 

I let myself fall silent. I’m not sure I want to talk about the next part. I don’t think Dr. Sawyer is ready for it yet.

“What happened when Sam got sick?” Dr. Sawyer prompts.

I shake my head. “You won’t like this part of the story.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s difficult to believe.”

Dr. Sawyer leans forward, gaze earnest. “My job is to believe you, Alex. I want to know your story. From your perspective.” I hang my head and sigh. From this point there is no going back.

“Ok,” I say.

 

It was at the end of our junior year, just before finals. Sam woke up complaining of headaches but sat down to study all the same. I studied with her, as was our habit by then, and noticed she seemed to be moving around a lot. Usually when Sam studied she would scarcely move. Her eyes would zip back and forth like a typewriter on speed while her form remained still as a statue. In contrast I could never sit still, something about which she regularly teased me.

Today things felt reversed. Sam moved from one position to another until I asked her what was wrong. She played it off, saying she must have slept funny for her limbs felt tight. I think she joked about needing a break every now and then from our love life. It’s a bit fuzzy, because in the midst of this she coughed, and then began to choke.

I rushed over to the floor as her face turned red, then purple. It was Sam who pulled the cell phone off the desk, reminding me to call for help. At the hospital they stuck a tube down her throat so she could breath. Then came the tests.

 I’ve never seen a human being take as much pain as Sam did over those next few days. In addition to the intensifying contraction of all her muscles, the doctors poked and prodded until her arms were lined with vicious bruises. She still managed to smile every time I went to see her, which was as often as possible. Pale, lips tinged with purple, and unable to move and Sam Arias still managed to smile.

I called Kara and she came up as soon as possible. The doctors had no idea what it was. Some kind of genetic disease they said. Intensely rare. They called Sam’s parents and told me I should prepare to say good-bye. When I told Kara she hugged me tight.

“What if Sam could be saved?” Kara asked. “She might not be the same, but she would live.”

“Sam living is all that matters,” I replied. “It’s the only thing.” Kara took a deep breath, and just as I did for you, warned me that what she was about to say would be difficult to believe.

“Do you know what the DEO does?” she asked.

“Research?”

“Yes, but what kind of research?”

“All kinds? Medical research?” I added hopefully.

Kara nodded. “Of a sort. The DEO is a science organization. They specialize in genetics. Specifically, they hope to create the perfect human.” Kara laughed uncomfortably.

“Would they know more about what is happening to Sam?”

“Probably not. The DEO isn’t too concerned with flawed genomes. I’m not explaining this well.” I watched Kara’s throat bob up and down and I think that’s when I realized what she was trying to say. Her incredible strength, flawless memory, ability to eat near endless amounts of food without gaining a single pound. She was a prototype.

“You?” I asked.

“There was an explosion,” Kara said. She talked fast, as if she hoped I could learn the truth without really absorbing what it meant. “Toxic chemicals that poisoned the entire town. The state couldn’t do much except try to contain the damage. They were thrilled when the DEO offered to help. The DEO took only a few of us. Younger ones that had taken damage but might still live. There were lots of injections but slowly my body began to heal itself. Because my parents died they decided I should live with Dr. Danvers. Jeremiah. That way he could continue to monitor me and run tests.”

Kara has always had the uncanny ability to read my mind. She could tell I was confused.

“Genetic modification,” she said. “They changed my DNA. It’s how I’m strong, how I heal so fast. My cells absorb energy from the sun.”

“Ok, but how does you having super-DNA help Sam?”

“Because with my blood she can also heal.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Kara. “It’s been done before. With my blood.”

I sensed it wasn’t the right time to ask about that, and honestly I was in a bit of a haze anyway. If Kara had said that Sam would live if she could commit to a lifelong diet of drinking blood I would have agreed.

I won’t bore you with the details of Sam’s recovery. With all the needle marks in Sam’s arm no one noticed the extra one we made. The doctors called it a miracle yet claimed all the credit. She was discharged from the hospital a few days later and for a time everything returned to normal. I forgot about Kara’s remark that Sam might not be the same.

By the time our senior year started however, changes were becoming apparent. Where before Sam had been confident, a kind of hardness, a cruelty began to appear. The delicate bird took on the air of a small dragon, feathers turned to scales and wings edged with talons. She would say things and later claim no memory of those things. She grew stronger too at these times, more like Kara but without Kara’s innate sweetness. Without her own innate sweetness. I tried to make it work, I really did. I loved, still love Sam. But I wasn’t right for her. When she was in a dark mood we fought, horribly. We began to bring out the worst in each other.

During one of our better moments we mutually agreed to split. I think we both rationalized it as necessary. We simply didn’t have a future together. I was bound for medical school and Sam to business school. But I never stopped loving Sam. I hoped that medical school would give me the tools I needed to help her, to reverse whatever I’d done. When we parted I remember hoping that the dark side of Sam was something that only I would ever see. That even if she couldn’t be mine, she could at least be the sweet, gentle Sam I’d fallen in love with.

 

I let my head hang low and fall silent again. This time Dr. Sawyer doesn’t prompt me to continue. Perhaps that’s enough for today.


	7. DEO

Birds twitter in the trees that line the property and Dr. Sawyer glances up. The angle makes her expression appear plaintive for a moment. It’s why I decide to press my luck.

“It’s very lonely here,” I say.

“Outside?”

“In this house. The property.”

Dr. Sawyer smiles somewhat unexpectedly. It’s a pretty smile that shows all her teeth and that asymmetrical dimple. “You have a whole staff of people here,” she says.

“Working here. Most days you’re the only one I talk to, and that’s just in the context of these sessions. I’m not allowed to receive mail directly and they shut off the phone line.” I imagine Sam’s bashful shrug, one from before, and do my best imitation of it, dropping my eyes and ducking my chin.

“Is there someone you’d like me to contact on your behalf to see if they would stay here? A family member or friend?”

“No,” I say. “They’re all gone.”

It has the intended effect. Dr. Sawyer can’t bring herself to look at me but blinks into the sun. She departs a few minutes later after thanking me for sharing. I make a show of digging around in the dirt a bit more, in case she returns with any immediate questions, pulling what I think are weeds and placing them in a pile off to the side. I need to do some research into gardening. Maybe buy some gloves. Mentally I compile a list of all the items I’d like to have.

I spend the rest of the morning slowly walking the edge of the property, learning the extent of my new limits. Once I know the edge, I go to the pile of old bricks in the garage, placing them every couple feet as a makeshift barrier to mark my new territory. I stand on the precipice and breathe in the free air, skin tingling. Today has been a good day.

 

Maggie breathes a sigh of relief from the relative safety of her car. At least Alex seems to enjoy the garden. She didn’t get up once and dove directly in with her hands where Maggie expected she would have retrieved gloves or a trowel or…something.

There is a lot to digest from today’s session but one item stands out from the rest. In retrospect Maggie feels a bit silly for not having picked up on it sooner. The way Alex detailed out her relationships with the women in her life should have been a clear sign. The image of Alex peering up from between the thighs of another woman comes to Maggie unbidden. Warmth fills her cheeks as Maggie turns up the AC, pushing away the image.

The trauma of losing her first love would explain one of the biggest question marks in Alex’s past. Namely, why she would have dropped out of medical school while under academic probation after a relatively successful undergraduate career. Samantha Arias. Maggie frowns to herself. That name sounds familiar.

It’s a long drive back to National City and nothing decent is playing on the radio. She leans over and dials Alex’s attorney, setting the phone on speaker.

“Dr. Sawyer,” says the deep voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s me that wanted to thank you,” Maggie begins. “Alex seemed quite a bit more comfortable in the garden space just outside the house. I think it will help our sessions immensely.”

“I hope so. It was no trouble at all. Any progress?”

Maggie frowns again. “Not as much as I’d like,” she admits.

“Why don’t you drop by? We can discuss in more detail.”

“Sure.”

With something to look forward to the rest of the drive passes quickly. Maggie enters the office building where Alex’s attorney rents space. The checkerboard floor of the lobby always gives her the impression that she’s being watched, moved into position. But whether she’s the queen or pawn she isn’t quite sure. The security guard waves her into the elevator bay without a second glance.

The attorney smiles as Maggie enters, standing to greet her.

“I’m pleased to hear the garden was a success,” he says. His deep voice reverberates against the wall of windows that frame the office.

“Alex dove right in,” Maggie replies. The attorney chuckles to himself and gestures for her to take a seat.

“Any new information on the bunker situation?”

Maggie shakes her head. “Alex is working her way there.” With deliberate slowness, Maggie thinks. “She did share some interesting information on the DEO though.”

The attorney cocks his head to the side.

“Apparently they were engaged in some kind of genetic modification work. Alex claims her adopted sister, Kara, was the product of their testing.”

“Interesting.” His tone is a difficult read. Maggie wonders if he already knows about DEO’s potentially less-than-legal research. It’s likely. She debates sharing the bit about Sam, but decides against it. It would be too gossipy, not something related to the questions that plague the bunker. Or Alex’s mental state.

“Did she mention Samantha Arias?”

Maggie starts. “Actually, yes.”

“Some records I’ve been reviewing indicate that Ms. Arias is how Alex got the job with DEO. She was also in the bunker.”

Maggie’s jaw drops. That changes everything. The conversation with Alex suddenly takes on much more importance with regard to understanding what might have happened. Did Alex reconnect with Sam in the bunker? She did note more than once that she still loved Sam. Enclosed spaces and forced company often heighten existing relationships. Maggie had seen as much in her own bunker experience. And with Kara present…

No wonder Alex feels lonely. The bunker was stocked with people to whom Alex felt a strong connection. To be cut adrift from that, even the memories due to her new location. Maggie tries to imagine how it must feel and fails. The kind of connection that seems to come so easily for Alex has eluded Maggie. During the Dark Years she ironically found her place as her ability to turn inward became an unexpected advantage, not to mention helpful to her role as a psychiatrist. She’s been on her own so long that loneliness is simply part of being; something she no longer notices as a distinct state.

“Doctor?”

Maggie shakes the thought away.

“Alex told me she’s lonely,” Maggie says. She’s not sure why she’s sharing this information with legal counsel, but thankfully he doesn’t seem taken aback by the more personal report.

“I believe it. The Danvers estate is somewhat remote.” He studies Maggie for a moment.

“You live in National City, correct?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a long drive.”

“It can be.”

The attorney leans back, tapping his fingers together.

“Would you consider staying there? It’s a large home, you would have your own space. Free meals, cleaning service. It would give you more time to work with Alex,” he says. “Probably foster a more trusting relationship. I spent some time out there before taking on her case full-time.”

“You want me to move out to Midvale?”

“It’s an option. A temporary one. We don’t have a lot of time. You are making progress but…” _It may not be fast enough._ “You would, of course, be compensated for the additional time,” he adds.

“Let me think on it.” _Oh hell no_.

“Of course.”

On the short drive home Maggie begins mentally composing the polite, but firm email she will write declining the offer. _Untenable_. No that’s not the right word. _Impractical_. Yes. Also, _inopportune_ , what with the demand for bunker PTSD specialists in National City. Yet as Maggie opens the door to her bare apartment all she can think is _yes_. Or at least _why not_. Maybe it’s the smell of day-old takeout containers in the trash, or the small pile of junk mail Maggie hasn’t found the time to shred. No, the interest is purely academic Maggie tells herself. Alex has proven an intriguing patient, the chance to study her further and outside of the confines of their sessions is difficult to pass up, professionally speaking. And the extra money wouldn’t hurt either. Her hand itches for the phone. No, Maggie thinks. At least sleep on it.

 

“Yesterday you said you were lonely.” I glance up from my position in the grass. Rather than faking my way through the dirt, today I’m laid out enjoying the unseasonably warm sun. How would you feel if I moved into the house for a bit?” Dr. Sawyer asks.

I squint. “This house?”

“Yes.” Maggie feels a bit stupid. This seemed like such an elegant solution the other day. But when Alex repeats the thought it suddenly feels very silly. _Pathetic_. She has got to stop. Why does she care so much about the opinion of this patient?

“Yeah sure. Why not?” I say. “Does that mean more sessions?”

“Only if you want,” replies Dr. Sawyer. “The rest of the time we can just talk normally. It doesn’t have to be about your case.” Even she doesn’t quite seem to believe the words. Every minute will be a session, an examination of my story. I wonder who set her up to this idea. “Would you like to walk?”

“Now?” It’s my turn to feel stupid. In response Dr. Sawyer simply turns. I scramble to my feet, lurching ahead of her briefly before our pace synchronizes and we begin circling the estate just inside the barrier I’ve marked. It’s quite warm in the sun and Dr. Sawyer shoulders off her cardigan, slinging it over her elbow. I guess she’s not taking notes today.

“How did you end up working for DEO?” Dr. Sawyer asks. It feels like an abrupt jump in the narrative I’ve been telling. But it means she’s at least considering the possibility that what I told her about the DEO and Kara is true. That’s something.

“How does anyone end up anywhere? The winds of chance. Connections. Luck, if you can call working for DEO lucky. It’s all random.”

“You must have had some control. If you hadn’t wanted to work there you could have said no.” Even as Maggie says it she cringes at the judgement, the privilege revealed in her retort. “You made good enough grades in college,” she adds.

“I ran into a bit of trouble after college,” I say. “But you already knew that.” There’s no way Dr. Sawyer hasn’t seen my record. Dropping out of medical school is bad enough, but there’s half a sheet worth of misdemeanors that follow, most of which were settled in exchange for probation and community service, the remainder dropped. It’s not a time of my life I’m particularly proud of. A long silence follows.

“I’m trying to help, Alex. The more you can tell me about how you came to be in that bunker and who was with you, the better this will be.”

Irritatingly she’s right. Stonewalling will get me nowhere. So, with a deep breath, I resume.

 

The years after college were difficult for me, I’d prefer to not get into specifics. The split with Sam was tough, of course, but it was much more than that. In college I felt as if I’d found myself. I’d learned who I was and for the first time in my life I was confident in that knowledge. For all the talk of people hating labels, in retrospect is was the labels that made that time so easy.

“Who is Alex Danvers?” someone might ask. And to that there would be any number of labels someone could assign. College student. Runner. Sam’s girlfriend. Bioengineering major. I felt defined by these titles in a way I’ve never felt since. It made life easy, knowing where I fell in relation to others. Unfortunately, life in college is a bit different than the real world. The boxes in life are not so clear cut, and those outside hobbies mean less and less until you find are defined by the mundane motions of everyday life. No one stands out, and in being lumped in with everyone else we become invisible. Indistinguishable.

Kara seemed to revel in her ordinariness but it chafed for me. My restlessness became more apparent and to drown the sickening feeling that I’d lost my way in life, that I was no longer extraordinary, I began to drink and party more heavily. Eventually Kara intervened, dragged me back home to this house where my mother watched over me as if I were a teenager recovering from mono instead of a grad school dropout. It was nice, for a time. But then the restlessness returned.

I took to going for long walks in the woods every afternoon. As I became more familiar with the winding paths I traveled further and further, testing my memory of the trail. I remembered my father used to walk out here and the idea popped into my head that he might still be in these woods, haunting them. Once I’s made my way deep into the forest I would find a small clearing and talk to him, hoping he would respond.

You would probably think it analogous to these sessions, for in talking to my father, or to the wind at least, I discovered the secrets that tormented me. I named my fears, and I found that a thing named is not half as frightening as a thing obscured by the shadows of the mind.

Among those fears was my indecision about life. I had many interests, a few true talents, but no calling. The thought of simply _being_ held no appeal. I wanted to live in such a way that I could tell my grandchildren stories that would make their eyes pop and jaws drop. I wanted people to look at me and say, now there’s someone who knows what she wants out of life. There’s someone who has made her mark.

It was during one of these meditative walks that I almost got my wish. I remember I was singing, for it was a lovely day, much as today is. I saw a shadow through the brush and stopped. I’d seen deer in these woods, even the occasional wolf, but this shadow was larger, and made the shadowed forest appear suddenly ominous. Possibly a bear had wandered down from the neighboring mountain range, or worse, there was someone else out here, watching me.

I’ve always worked out religiously, even during the tough years, so I felt confident I could handle myself in a fight. But at that point in my life, I’d never been in a real fight. Truth be told, the thought gave me a kind of thrill. Stupidly I didn’t have a single weapon on me, nothing but fists with which to defend myself. The branches rustled and I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand.

That’s when my father stepped out. He was more rugged than I remembered, his chin thick with a couple days worth of scruff. His right temple sported a deep cut that was scabbing in a thick reddish-brown smear. Most startlingly however were the dead eyes that rose from the ground, searching my face.

“Alex,” my father said. “Is that you?”

“You’re alive.” When confronted with surprises we all too often stick to the obvious. But seeing him right there before me, it was literally all I could think to say. Despite all my wishful thinking, the thought that he would step out before me while on a walk had never crossed my mind. He shook his head.

“No, Alex. I died years ago. You know that.” At this point it occurred to me that I might be dreaming, a thought I immediately banished so I could see the dream through to its conclusion. He stepped closer. “Where is Kara?”

“Kara? National City. She’s working for a big publishing company.”

“Is she safe?” His voice was sharp. “No one knows about her?”

“No,” I said. “I swear.” In that moment I forgot completely about Sam. But even if I had remembered, I doubt I would have said anything.

“Good.” His hunched shoulders relaxed and he continued to speak, but I never saw his lips move. “What happened to you Alex? You’re broken inside. I can see the jagged yellow edges of your soul. They’re all mixed up.”

I felt every stab then, all the bits and pieces I’d swept under the rug. Not gone, but merely out of sight and just as painful. I think he pulled me close for I smelled my father’s musky scent, mixed in with the cologne he used. If the experience was a dream, it remains the most vivid one I’ve ever had. I felt the rough scratching of his facial hair against my cheek, I heard his heart beating through his chest.

“The answers lie within the DEO,” the voice said. “Call Sam. She can get you in.”

That my father would know about Sam surprised me. I wanted to ask how he knew, and how Sam could possibly have anything to do with the DEO, but by the time such questions had formed into coherent thoughts, the apparition had vanished.


	8. Moving

I spent the entirety of the long walk home thinking about my strange encounter. There was never a question in my mind that I would do exactly as my father said. He’d seen right through me and promised a solution. I vowed to call Sam and ask about the DEO.

It took me three days to work up the courage. Understandably we’d parted on…unusual terms. I hadn’t heard much from her in the two years since we’d graduated. In the end I sent her an email, fearing she’d screen any calls from me. I told her about my flaming out from medical school, recovery at home, and a bit about Kara’s new job. To my surprise she wrote back almost immediately. She’d happened to come across DEO recently in a job fair. Isn’t that where my father used to work? The recruiter had been very interested and she already had an interview lined up. I asked her to keep me posted. A couple weeks later she reached back out, this time passing along a job posting from DEO. Her new boss asked if she knew anyone with a bioengineering background. She thought it would be a perfect fit for me, lots of travel and cutting-edge research, minimal oversight.

I applied, of course. It almost felt like a rehearsed scene when I went in for my interview. The offer was ultimately no surprise. Afterwards I thanked Sam for sending the opportunity my way and assumed that was that. I never expected we would cross paths. I worked out of one of their lab locations, while Sam was ensconced in the swanky corporate office downtown.

For a time things were normal. It was strange. I worked from eight to five, packed lunches for myself, sat in traffic, and discovered what watercooler talk was all about. I even started watching TV, just a couple shows, so I could contribute. I wasn’t changing the world, but truth be told, I was fairly content. After what felt like constant upheaval, it was nice to have some certainty. A routine. I was surprised when a couple months into my tenure, Sam dropped by the lab.

It seemed like a normal day. The air was just beginning to cool as autumn arrived. Clouds hung heavy on the horizon, carrying with them the strong likelihood of afternoon rain and an ugly commute home. I’d arrived in the office early. I had an experiment in place, and my cell samples required very prompt feedings. I was in the incubator room while most of my colleagues were arriving and catching up on the morning’s gossip, so I had no idea what was going on. But the second I entered the office space it was clear today was not a normal day.

People sat stiffly on their stools with looks of concentration so intense it was comical. They spoke in hushed voices and the break room remained clear. I had to write up my experiment so I appreciated the unusual quiet and went to work. I must have been halfway through the report when a low whisper circled the room.

“What’s going on?” I asked a colleague with a desk near mine. “Did someone die?” I asked the last part as a joke, a lame effort to break the tension. My colleague paled and for a moment I worried I’d inadvertently touched on the truth.

“No. Worse. The CEO is making rounds today. She’s got a budget person. You know what that means.” I had zero idea what that could possibly mean. Remember, this was my first real job. But I didn’t want to appear ignorant so I nodded as if I understood. I suspect I wasn’t particularly convincing because my colleague drew a finger across her throat and mouthed “cuts.”

I began to get nervous as well at that point because you know what they say: first in, first out. If cuts were to be made and jobs lost, mine would be the first to go. No question.

The rumor mill swirled all day. They were holed up in one of our conference rooms, blinds closed tight. People were being called in one at a time. No one who had been in the room would talk about what happened, which only stoked the panic further.

In the quiet the day dragged on slowly. My cells replicated and divided as normal however, so I tried to keep my mind occupied with regular checks on my experiment. When I returned to my desk after one such trip I noticed a new meeting on my calendar, scheduled for one minute from now on the other side of the building. I dashed over, not even realizing until I made it to the door that this was the conference room commandeered by the CEO. The door opened and a voice called my name.

It couldn’t have been a good first impression. I was still trying to catch my breath, my face red, and a faint line of sweat forming on the top of my brow which I was afraid to wipe lest I appear nervous and by association, expendable.

Sam smiled as I entered and it was such a shock to see her that I completely missed the extended hand of the company CEO. My memories of Sam were split in two, the sweet, shy, but brilliant girlfriend; and then the cold, harshly logical, cruel creature that sometimes took her place after her illness. The person I saw before me bore no resemblance to the dark Sam. I saw only my first love and wondered how we’d ever fallen apart.

The CEO cleared her throat loudly and I’m sure my face flushed even more when I realized my oversight.

“I understand you know Ms. Arias,” the CEO said. “My name is Lena Luthor. Thank you for giving us a few minutes of your time today.”

I mumbled something unintelligible. I felt completely off balance by the suddenness of this meeting and now seeing Sam again, bringing back feelings I’d thought long gone.

“We are conducting interviews with certain researchers that demonstrate potential,” Lena continued. “While you are relatively new to DEO, you come highly recommended. However, before we discuss this opportunity, I need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement.”

At that, Sam immediately slid a small stack of paper across the table. Several pages of small font with a lot of legalese that I couldn’t really understand, certainly not in my current state.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Lena. “Or you can turn around. It will have no impact on your current job if you prefer to continue as you are.”

From the corner of my eye Sam seemed to be trying to communicate something. Probably that I should sign. After all, it had to be Sam that had recommended me for this special project. I had no prior jobs that could have offered the recommendation and it seemed unlikely my supervisor of only a few months would have taken that step.

“There would be a substantial raise in pay,” Lena added. That was all I needed to flip to the last page and sign. I trusted Sam. I couldn’t imagine anything would change other than the heightened security around my work. That didn’t bother me. Few people really want to understand the science of my day-to-day work anyway. Being able to say to that I couldn’t discuss my work would always give me a neat social out, with the benefit of making me appear elusive and mysterious.

 

“The non-disclosure agreement is still binding,” I add. Maggie lurches her step, thrown by the abrupt break in the story.

“Alright,” she says. “But if it’s relevant to the bunker it may be admissible.”

I bite my lip. Another classic Sam-ism.

“We can skip that part,” Dr. Sawyer says. “If it comes up again we’ll get you in touch with your attorney.” Deal struck, we walk in silence until we complete our current loop back to the garden and the steps leading up to the deck.

“When are you moving in?” I ask. Dr. Sawyer ducks her head into her shoulder in that manner which I’ve learned means she’s uncomfortable.

“As soon as you’d like,” she replies. I wonder if she has any idea how transparent her discomfort is.

“No sense wasting time.” Dr. Sawyer hunches her shoulders up towards her ears. I can imagine her squirming out of her skin. “Guess that’s time for now,” I continue. I’m enjoying this altogether too much.

 

It doesn’t take Maggie long to pack. It’s just one week, maybe two. If she learned anything living in a bunker for years it’s that people don’t need nearly as much stuff as they think they do. Plus, the Danvers house will have everything appliance-wise. She packs methodically, shoes, shirts, socks, underthings. A small set of toiletries. All very practical, and all very impersonal. She fidgets over her dresser. Maybe something else. Something to add a bit of personality, a reminder of home. _What’s to remember?_ This apartment is just as much a place to stay as the Danvers estate. She hasn’t had a home in years. She picks a book from her shelf and tosses it on top of the clothes. _Ishmael_. She keeps starting it and never finishing. Maybe if it’s the only thing around she can finally make it all the way through.

Maggie moves in the next day, which has the added benefit of being a Sunday. Typically, this would be her one day off, no sessions and no drive to Midvale. It seems appropriate to give herself a full day to adjust to the patterns and habits of the Danvers house, but after all twenty minutes of unpacking and rearranging the guest room to her liking, Maggie isn’t quite sure how to spend the remainder of the day. It’s barely even lunchtime.

She thinks about exploring. It’s not a huge house, but large enough to occupy some time, however she has no wish to bump into Alex while in the process of learning her way around. The woods might be a good option though. Alex’s ankle monitor doesn’t allow her to travel that far. All she needs is a bit of food and she can make a picnic out of it. Start that damn book for the sixth time.

Maggie winds her way down the back stairs to the kitchen. With two steps to go a deep throaty laugh rolls around the corner. Immediately she freezes, hoping her form isn’t visible to whoever is within. A low voice asks a question. Is that Thomas? Maggie has a list of the staff, their days of work, and duties in her notebook. Thomas is memorable as the only male on staff, tasked with meals. Maggie thought he only came around in the evenings though. Apparently not.

Alex replies to the question in a high teasing tone, words too distorted by the angle to pick out. The conversation continues, the low murmur and louder confident response. They seem to have a strong rapport. Maggie can’t stay here. Someone could get up at any moment and spot her, and it would be obvious she’d been listening. But having come this close she is more aware than ever of the impending lunch hour and really would like a bite of food. Taking a breath, Maggie steps around the corner, smile prepared as if she just stumbled downstairs and happen to find them.

The conversation ceases as Alex and an unknown lanky black man glance up. Alex does a double take while the chef examines her with interest.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Maggie says. She can tell she’s speaking a bit too quickly. “I just finished unpacking and I thought I might grab something to eat.”

Alex extends her arm over what Maggie now realizes is a spread of food. “Help yourself. It’s Sunday brunch.”

“Wow,” says Maggie. “Do you do this every week?”

“I do whatever is requested,” Thomas replies. “Alex didn’t mention she had a paramour staying over or else I would have made more.”

“I’m not –”

“I would never –”

“– and this is plenty,” Maggie finishes. Oh god, this is going terribly. The tips of her ears burn and she tries to casually brush her hair over to hide their glow. Thomas grins at Alex who promptly throws a piece of French toast at the chef.

_Never_. Ouch. Alex may be a patient but it stings all the same. _Tell me what you really think_.

“I’ll just make a quick sandwich,” Maggie says. Thomas must feel bad for the flustered guest for he immediately hops up.

“I’ll get it.” He spins efficiently around the kitchen between the fridge, pantry, and table. Within a couple minutes Maggie has a brown bag lunch ready to go. Alex offers a wan half-smile as Maggie retreats. As soon as she’s around the corner conversation resumes in lowered tones. She thinks Thomas laughs and her skin burns.


	9. Library

“How are you liking the house?” I ask.

“It’s, um, lovely,” Dr. Sawyer says. “Much easier commute.” An awkward giggle. We haven’t crossed paths since yesterday morning’s détente. The house isn’t that big so I know she must be avoiding me. I wonder how long she can stay confined to her room before going stir-crazy.

“Room ok? I can speak to the staff if anything is off. Sorry about Thomas. I didn’t realize you’d be coming in so early.”

Dr. Sawyer waves off the comment. She doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t want to acknowledge we are living in the same shared space in which she is the outsider.

I turn away, studying the garden closely. Thomas brought me a small box of tools and books on gardening that I read last night. I’m pleased to see that most of what I identified as weeds previously was correct, although I might have torn up a couple of perennials by accident. Still, I can fix this. I dive in with my hands. While the box contained some gloves, Dr. Sawyer might find it suspicious if I used gloves today when I didn’t last week, not to mention how I acquired a pair of brand spanking-new gloves. Besides, I rather enjoy the feel of the damp earth. Dr. Sawyer’s eyes follow me. I can sense her relaxing, here, in her preferred role as the observer.

“You said before that you managed your bunker’s farm,” Dr. Sawyer says, interrupting my thought. Did I? Oops.

“Managed is a bit strong,” I hedge. “Helped out. We all did to some extent.” Dr. Sawyer has a good memory. I need to be more careful.

“Is that something you enjoy?”

“I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Why do you enjoy therapy, doctor? I assume that was your role in the bunker.”

“Maggie,” she corrects reflexively. Her brow furrows. “Yes, I worked to ensure a productive environment in my bunker. I find the human mind interesting. It is both fragile and intensely resilient. Rarely does it respond in the same way for different people.”

Good answer. I’m a bit surprised she answered.

“Did you like it?”

She pauses just a fraction of a second. I’m not supposed to ask questions. “I did,” she says. Dr. Sawyer looks up to face me directly. _Your turn._

“I suppose I like the idea of creating something new,” I say. _Dig deeper_. Or she won’t buy it. “Something sustaining and lifegiving.” Dr. Sawyer nods as if she expected that response.

“It must run in your family,” she remarks.

“What, working at DEO? You know I can’t discuss that work.”

“I wasn’t asking about DEO.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Sam.”

An image of Sam at the hospital, weak, on the verge of death chills me. We brought her back from death but it’s not something we talk about. Not ever. I brush the dirt on my hands against my jeans, leaving dark stains like the blood that Kara drew from her vein so long ago.

“I think I’ve had enough for today.” Dr. Sawyer doesn’t try to stop me as I walk inside. She’s still sitting out there an hour later, notebook in her lap, an even gaze towards the tree line. From my angle it’s tough to tell, but I think she may be smiling. For some reason her satisfaction causes rage to boil from a hidden crevice inside. I toss a framed photo across the room. The glass cover shatters and the crack inside splits open into darkness.

 

Maggie hums an atonal tune under her breath. There’s something, she’s sure of it. Alex’s reaction is not what one could classify as typical. But then again, Alex could not be classified as typical. She’s smart for one. Extremely smart and calculating. But there’s a reason Alex’s attorney called Maggie when he needed someone for the job. _You’re the best_. Damn straight. For every awkward social interaction, these sessions are where Maggie knows herself. Knows what is needed, instinctively seeing the missing pieces. She needs to see that prickly, jagged side of Alex. The side that Alex is hiding, maybe even from herself. Today is the first time she feels Alex has been present, that she could penetrate the brittle exterior. Maggie smiles at the steady pines arching towards the curved blue sky. Today has been a productive day.

Maggie picks up _Ishmael_ but sets it down after only a few pages. She’s not in the mood for philosophy. She can’t hide in the guest room forever, and perhaps running into Alex would be a good thing, seeing as they never completed their usual session. Alex has an inherent sense of honor that will compel her to finish out the hour at some point. It’s one of the many fascinating quirks of the accused killer.

The house is old but well-kept. Narrow hallways open into wide rooms, many with expansive views of the distant mountains. The topmost floor where Alex’s room is located seems off-limits, so Maggie instead explores the first two levels. The back of the first level features a dark, wood-paneled room with a large table and chairs stacked in the corner. A dining room, but one that has not seen use in quite some time. In happier times this room would have been the logical site for hosting birthday parties and other events.

Maggie exits and on a whim, turns right. The dark oak door opens quietly revealing a study, or perhaps better characterized as a library for the desk by the window appears vacant. Shelves line the walls extending from the floor to ceiling and an additional two rows down the middle. Heavy curtains hang from the window. Someone must come in here every day to open and close these. Maggie wonders how many of those days this room sits empty but for the morning and evening ritual.

The desk near the window boasts authentic scuffs from a century of use but its surface is otherwise pristine. This may be somewhere she could come to get away, even to write up some notes. In the muffled silence someone clears their throat.

Maggie moves to the bookshelf closest to the window. Tucked into the corner, curled up on the thick carpet, rests Alex, book in hand. Before Maggie can retreat Alex looks up.

“You found the library,” says Alex. Maggie pauses. The tone is quite a bit friendlier than Maggie would have expected given how their last conversation ended. In fact, Alex’s entire body language seems to have been replaced. She’s relaxed, at home, her space.

“It would appear so.” Alex slouches against the sturdy wood shelves, somehow managing to make the hard surface appear comfortable. Maggie steps forward. “What are you reading?”

“ _Heart of Darkness_ ,” Alex replies, flipping the cover towards Maggie.

“So just a little light reading then?” A high-pitched giggling noise she’s never heard follows. She should have stayed in her room. Casual conversation is not her forte.

“I like it.”

“I’ve always found it difficult. I’m impressed you enjoy it.” Now she’s swung too far towards formal, coming dangerously close to using her therapist voice. Maggie grits her teeth.

“I think it’s an honest view of humanity,” Alex says. She appears blissfully ignorant of Maggie’s social struggles. “So many books and movies show this idealized version of ourselves. But that’s not what people are. At our core we are all just one step from becoming what we most despise.”

“What we despise?”

“Beasts. This idea of being civilized and how that makes us special. But if we lose that civility then we can’t much pretend we’re better than other creatures, can we?”

“That’s a dark perspective.”

Alex waves the book. “The warning’s in the title.”

Maggie laughs and this time it comes out sounding normal. Are they having a conversation like real people? Did Alex just make a joke? It shouldn’t feel like progress, taking part outside the confines of their sessions, but it does.

“What about you?” Alex continues. “Read much?”

“Nah, I just like the view.”

Alex grins and for the first time she’s a peer. A person Maggie could have met in a bar or on the street while they waited to cross the street at the same intersection. Not the accuser murderer or broken, damaged woman she’s been hired to treat.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie says. “I’ve interrupted your reading time.”

“No stay,” says Alex. “You’re here because of what I said, right? Because it’s lonely here.”

“Yeah, I… Yes.”

Alex pats the space beside her.

“Then stay. Please.”

 

_Case Notes of Dr. Margaret Sawyer_

_Alex continues to be a curiosity as a patient, both reticent to share and yet a detailed and obliging storyteller. One cannot help but get the impression however that she tells the story as she wishes to, perhaps leaving out certain problematic aspects. I worry less about omission than substitution, although nothing currently suggests that particular strategy._

_Of note, Alex refuses to discuss the exact nature of her work with DEO. She also persists in the belief that the spirit of her father guided her to follow his work at DEO and remains sensitive to references either to him or Sam and her supposed transformation. If her tale is to be believed she has experienced supernatural-like occurrences which I suspect she believes to be at the heart of whatever occurred in the bunker. If so, we could be looking at some sort of psychotic break, albeit one that seems to have been triggered by a particular event rather than ongoing. It is the source of the break which I am most interested to understand._

Maggie re-reads her notes. Slim, but on the edge of something. There’s more she’d like to include but it feels speculative at this juncture.

 

Books have a smell I’ve always found soothing. It’s like breathing in a memory, something from the past that’s been pressed and preserved, the hard edges and long dull slopes placed into context relative to each other. I suppose it’s not surprising that after my anger subsides I find myself in the library, tucked into a corner, not even exactly sure how I came to be. Dr. Sawyer walks in, loudly touching and sliding her hand against the furniture. Through the full shelves her face is partially obscured and it’s obvious she has no idea I’m here. She’s smaller from this perspective, her movements delicate and precise. Lightly her fingers tap against the desk, her usual tension temporarily gone.

It will be awkward for both of us if she stumbles onto me so I clear my throat. A few seconds later she pops her head down my row. Truthfully, I’m surprised to see her. I expected she would bolt the second she realized she was not alone. She must be bored.

Dr. Sawyer even sits next to me and makes a good show of listening to me talk about _Heart of Darkness,_ although it’s clear the topic carries little interest for her. I catch her biting the inside of her cheek and wiggling her nose as if holding back a sneeze. Boredom or amusement, it’s tough to tell. Her gaze wanders restlessly, alighting but never settling on anything. Behind dark eyes her mind whirs with energy and thoughts unsaid.

Despite her lack of attention, the simple chatter is calming. A rare bit of normalcy in a world that seems to have been in constant upheaval for years. For a few moments we can be two people talking about books in a quiet room filled with sunlight. She finally begs off, promising to find me after lunch. It’s something to look forward to, and for once I don’t feel like a prisoner in my childhood home.  

I’m waiting when Dr. Sawyer staggers into the kitchen with a wary air. Probably still isn’t over the brunch incident. Goddamn Thomas. Though Dr. Sawyer’s expression was pretty priceless. An image of her shocked _who me_ expression triggers a laugh from the back of my throat. I cough to cover the sound.

Dr. Sawyer has changed out of her usual pantsuit into jeans and a casual button-up. It’s a look that shouldn’t work on her but somehow it does, transforming her business chic into stylish ranch hand.  No one would mistake her for a country gal though. She’s much too uptight. Obsessed with rules. I bet she loved her time in the bunker.

“I was thinking about what you said.”

“Oh yeah?” I’m more curious than I should be. Dr. Sawyer is a tough read, always listening, rarely speaking.

“How would you say your time in the bunker compares to _Heart of Darkness_?” I scowl. Of course, she would bring that up right as I’m starting to feel normal. Her way of reminding me of the session we never finished, or rather started, this morning.

“Not the same at all,” I reply. “If anything, the bunker was a microcosm of civilized society. Hyper-rigid rules and roles. Any perceived abnormality snuffed out immediately.” I can’t resist one last dig. “Wasn’t that your role?”

Dr. Sawyer stiffens. “That’s one perspective. I think I try to help people understand who they are. Provide context.”

“When you weren’t even there?”

“Sometimes that’s best.”

A brief standoff in which neither of us wants to back down. But I’m in the wrong here. I’m the one who has broken our social contract so I count to twenty and cede.

“Can I eat first?”

“Of course.”

I eat with deliberate slowness while Dr. Sawyer pretends it doesn’t irritate her. Any goodwill she earned earlier is gone, the therapist is back. She enjoys the superiority it brings. The distance. The wall it forces between us. She’s a tourist, observing me from the safety of my cage, marveling at the creature in the zoo. She knows I’m watching as well, but she’s got the upper hand, the high ground.

Her changeable attitude, friend one moment and therapist the next, irks me in a way I can’t quite articulate. Too reminiscent of Lena and all the games she loved to play. It falls naturally with the next part of my story.  I clear my throat and resume.


	10. Lena

I began working almost immediately for the DEO special project. Of course, there was the matter of transferring my current assignments, but after about a week, I was able to wrap those up and move full-time into the special lab downtown. The lab was in the basement of the corporate office and required special key card access both in the elevator and to pass the first sealed door.

I worked with only a few other people, but oddly seemed to be the only one with specific lab experience. Another tech named Winslow Schott, we all called him Winn, also worked in the lab but creating new technologies. Lena could also be found in the lab, often in the afternoons and evenings. For a CEO, she was actually brilliant in her own right and I quickly came to admire her.

It soon became apparent why we each had such different skills though. Compartmentalization. Lena was the only one who knew the whole picture. The rest of us only worked in pieces. The curiosity drove me mad, but I knew better than to ask. Which is why I readily accepted one evening when Lena invited me out for drinks to celebrate a minor breakthrough. I thought this might be my chance to learn more without having to ask, with an assist from happy hour specials.

We went downtown, near the financial district. It was a much nicer place than I would have chosen. Even the happy hour prices made my eyes water, but I asked for house whiskey – it’s always cheaper than the cocktails they offer – and hoped whatever I got charged wouldn’t be too much. Or that Lena would pick up the tab. But about the last thing I expected was for Kara to walk in the door ten minutes later.

Lena’s head was ducked into tight conversation with Sam, while Winn was trying to talk Eve and I into a game of darts. Lena kept glancing from her phone to the door and I was on the verge of asking her if she had a hot date when she suddenly stood and waved. Our entire group turned, but instead of some businessman there stood Kara, in a white button-up and pencil skirt, ever-present notebook in hand.

“Everyone,” said Lena, “this is my friend Kara.” She must have seen my jaw drop for Lena’s gaze swept across us and held my own for several seconds. But she never said a thing. Not a question, no clarification.

That was when I began to get nervous. I spent the entire evening on tenterhooks. I lost track of how many whiskies I’d had and thankfully Lena did pick up the tab. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Kara in front of Lena. She had to know we were sisters. More and more I became convinced the reason I’d been selected for the special project was my sister.

I tried to not stare but my eyes kept going back to Lena and Kara, chatting away at the corner of the table. My father’s voice echoed in my head: _protect her_. For as much as I admired Lena I didn’t want her to interact with my sister. She couldn’t know her. Lena was too smart. Did she already know, I wondered? Has this entire evening been constructed as some kind of test as to whether I could I keep my mouth shut? Or to determine where my loyalties laid?

I’d never considered how my own job with DEO might bear some resemblance to my father’s. As my immediate surroundings became fuzzier, I recalled my father’s constant stress. The way he tightened whenever the doorbell rang unexpectedly, his unexplained disappearances that culminated with the trip from which he never returned. _A black hole_ , he’d once called it in a half-joking voice. I saw the other half now, the one that was serious about the pull and danger of this place. In retrospect I should have guessed something was up. All of it, the vision, Sam being here, the special project… It felt deliberate, like someone lining up pieces across the chessboard in preparation for checkmate. By the time I left the bar, I had convinced myself that I would draft up a letter of resignation the next day.

But that didn’t happen. I woke up with a hangover, rushing into the office late. Lena was already in the lab so there was no covering up my tardiness; but fortunately, perhaps with an inkling as to why I’d been late, she didn’t mention it. In my rush to catch up, the thought of resigning completely left my head, all the paranoia of the night before lost to a boozy haze.

Once I left the lab, my thoughts returned to those worries again, and this time I resolved to speak to Kara. Kara couldn’t recall the details of how they met, only that someone at CatCo had recommended her as a source once, and they hit it off. Apparently, they had been going out for lunch and kombucha dates for some time to chat and swap information.

“Christ, Kara,” I said. “Lena works for DEO. No – scratch that. Lena _is_ the DEO. You know that’s dangerous. Especially for you.”

“Lena has only ever been a great friend to me,” Kara responded. “She doesn’t know anything about my background and she’s never asked. I don’t even think she knows we’re sisters.”

 _Oh, she knows_.

“And you’re one to talk,” Kara continued. “The one place you applied to work, you’re going to criticize me for being friends with your boss?”

“It’s different for me –”

“And for me,” Kara interrupted. “I’m well aware of all the things that make me different, and all the ways I have to be extra careful. But I also know the best way for me to blend in is to have friends. To hang out after work. You of all people should know that.”

Her rebuke stung me in a way I didn’t expect. I flinched and Kara blinked, feeling bad, but not wanting to back down from what she’d said.

It hurt that she was right. As teenagers I’d pawned her off every chance I could get. I shouldn’t expect that suddenly I could rein her in after years of forcing her to be independent. I swallowed hard.

“You’re right. Just…be careful, ok?”

Kara’s face softened and she barreled in for a hug, almost knocking me over.

“I hate fighting with you,” she said, words muffled against my sweater.

“Never again,” I promised her.

 

“I never did second guess Kara again,” I say. “Which is how she ended up in the snake pit, so to speak.” I listen to the gentle scratching of Dr. Sawyer’s pen for the few seconds it takes her to catch up. The once-grating noise is now soothing, like a head massage, a slightly rough bristling against my scalp. Silence.

“You mean the DEO bunker?”

“Yes.”

More scratches against the paper. Light tapping. My mind feels clear and open, ready for whatever question may come.

“You reacted very strongly to Lena knowing Kara.” It’s not a question so I wait. “Did you ever…?” Dr. Sawyer gestures vaguely, question hanging in the space between us. I’m pretty sure I know where she’s going, but I’d rather make her say it.

“What?”

Dr. Sawyer clears her throat. “Have a romantic relationship with Lena?”

“Despite what Thomas would have you think, I don’t become romantically involved with every woman I spend time around. She was my boss.”

“Yet you refer to her by first name,” Dr. Sawyer says, leaning forward. “Pretty casual for an employee-boss relationship. And you seem…frustrated with her, almost like –”

“Like a friend?” I interrupt. “We worked side by side for up to twelve hours a day for years. Those formalities of ‘Ms. Luthor’ disappeared quickly.”

“But this was before the bunker.”

“Lena was never one to stand on ceremony. She preferred to go by first name in the lab.”

“Yet you remained suspicious of her?”

“She still wielded a great deal of power. Not just over my job, but my entire family. I may have called her Lena, but I never forgot she was CEO.”

“Why do you think she asked you call her Lena?”

“Same reason you want me to call you Maggie.” Dr. Sawyer blinks. Apparently, she hasn’t realized the obvious parallel.

“What is that reason?” she asks carefully.

To create a sense of complacency and see if I slip up, I think. But I don’t say that aloud. “To make us seem like peers.”

“Are we not?”

I snort. “You can leave this place whenever you wish. I don’t see you sporting an ankle monitor. Nor are you accused of fifty-eight murders for no better reason than being alive.”

“Do you have another explanation?”

She’s got me there. I bite back a retort. The front of my head pulses, invisible sound waves through a fog cloud. Sometimes I think I remember the screams or faces but mostly it’s all gray. A blank space where once stood memory. Then the waking up into a surreal kind of dream, not knowing reality, not caring, until the day I suddenly realized I was not alone. That I hadn’t died to live out some kind of purgatorial loop.

Dr. Sawyer changes position on her stool. _This was a mistake_. Why the hell did she think that moving into the same house as a client, a patient, was a good idea? Her gut reaction had been right. What on earth possessed her to change her mind? They’d had one good, normal conversation, but Alex is right – they aren’t peers. Not really. Maggie has to go through her questions, has to push, to make Alex uncomfortable if she wants to achieve anything. That’s not exactly a great foundation for living in such close proximity.

And that question about Lena? Where the hell did that come from? _Another trigger for Alex_. _A possible motive for slaughter._ Just thinking it made Maggie feel dirty, as if she were betraying a confidence. She had no reason to suspect Alex would omit such an important detail. In fact, Alex seemed to relish the opportunity to flaunt her love life for Maggie, often trying to force extended eye contact. It was as if Alex already knew about Maggie’s solo existence, something probably easily guessed when Maggie moved in, she realized with a flush.

The awkwardness expanded between them like an inflating balloon, pressing against the skin and filling the open spaces in the kitchen until Maggie thought she might explode from the pressure.

“I think that’s good for now,” Maggie says. Alex’s gaze pierces her carefully honed stoic mask, searching for…something.

“Alright,” Alex replies. She turns back just before her foot reaches the first step.

“You remind me of her. The way she used to act.”

“Who?”

“Ms. Luthor.” Alex turns back before the flush spreads up Maggie’s cheeks. Deliberate words. A rejection of the first name offering for good.

 _Epic fail, Sawyer. She trusts you even less than before_. A hand vibrates against the kitchen island, excess nerves trying to escape her body through any means necessary. She’s provoked Alex, which is good, but the focus of her ire is now Maggie – bad. She just can’t seem to strike the right balance.

Maggie allows herself a few moments of wallowing before she stands. Maybe acting like Lena Luthor isn’t a bad thing. Maybe Maggie jumped to conclusions too quickly. Alex’s tone was difficult to read. Outside, the unusually warm sun beats against her shoulders as she contemplates the comparison.

It’s the tests that make Alex irate. The poking and prodding that are the tools of the trade are much too transparent for such a quick-witted individual. Maggie’s mind wanders to the library, the couple hours easily passed curled up against the dark wooden shelves. Such a contrast, such openness and candor, an entirely different version of Alex.

Maggie makes her way around the house to the garage. With a sense of relief, she turns the key in the ignition, already picturing the long highway ahead. She needs to learn more about Lena. And a few hours away from Alex and her changeable moods.

 

The gray car pulls out of the garage smoothly, turning right towards the center of town and bound for the highway, I’d bet. Dr. Sawyer’s features are invisible through the smudged windows, only the outline of her face and hair, frizzy from the humidity, can be seen. A mix of regret and excitement flows through my veins. Hope for a normal, moderately social afternoon flew out the window the second Dr. Sawyer insisted on returning to our session. But the insistence in itself feels promising. As if she’s not sure herself of her role here. I can use that.

The curtain swings back into place as the excitement overtakes regret. I have a few hours of privacy. The false bottom in the library desk drawer pulls out smoothly. I only have to remove it halfway to reach the thick wire I’ve bent and twisted to suit my needs. If staff found this it would be confiscated immediately as a potential weapon, but since uncovering the wire rod in the garden a couple days ago I’ve been working on it slowly. They don’t search the first floor nearly as thoroughly as they should.

The wire slips several times and I curse under my breath. Finally, the ankle monitor clicks. The latch swings open and the blinking bracelet tumbles the remaining inches to the ground. My heart pounds high in my throat and I can hear my own ragged breathing.

I can leave.


	11. Hideaway

I slip out through the back, wandering around the garden until I’m sure none of the staff are around. It’s a quick jaunt to the tree line and within seconds I’m running along the worn trails I know so well. The wind carries me, legs churning without effort as for a few moments I am free, a glimpse of my former self within reach. The illusion ends when I reach the first clearing, the absence of shadows casting my situation into stark relief.

This isn’t the time. I have nothing but the literal clothes on my back. No plan. I slow into a trot, then stop, my breath the only sound I can hear. Turning back is the only option but I feel my soul wilt at the thought of the dour, empty house and ever-present Dr. Sawyer with her questions.

If she went to National City I have at least two hours, probably three. Midvale is only a couple of miles. I can be there in fifteen minutes, thirty round trip. It’s enough. My feet don’t even touch the path. I hear laughing as I fly through the wood and it’s strange to realize it’s the first time I’ve really laughed since the bunker.

 

The long highway stretches before Maggie, taunting. National City was a bust. Alex’s attorney had just stepped out for an unexpected reason that his secretary couldn’t explain. Maggie had been forced to dig directly through the records contained in the attorney’s conference room. Boxes upon boxes of mostly unorganized logs, profiles, and DEO records. The results felt unsatisfactory, even if she technically found what she came for.

Lena’s bunker profile was intact, showing an extremely intelligent, driven woman, who didn’t like to keep a lot written down. But clear enough from the records was that if Lena had a romantic relationship with anyone, it would have been Kara. But surely Alex would have mentioned something like that. The only conclusion is that Maggie wasted three and a half hours to learn not a whole lot.

The thought of returning to the quiet house is dispiriting, so on a whim Maggie skips the turn-off to the Danvers house and continues into the small downtown of Midvale. The business district ends almost as soon as it started so Maggie turns the car and parks. Walking will help clear her head.

For lease signs dot the windows of several establishments, clearly a town that has seen better days, while the remainder are hopelessly out of date. A few exceptions, new construction, mostly fusion restaurants, dominate the corners, but otherwise this town could pass for something from twenty years ago. The Dark Years have done this community no favors, leaving a dusty layer of ash in the older builders that Maggie knows from experience can’t be cleaned.

A red brick wall lines the end of the block with nothing but high windows. Curiously Maggie turns the corner. A single step in front of a black painted door. Into the paint someone has etched the word ‘hideaway.’ The low throb of music can be heard from within and the stoop smells unmistakably of liquor. It’s not like Alex would be anxiously awaiting her return.

The door swings with surprising ease. For a moment it’s almost impossible to see as Maggie’s eyes adjust to the dimly lit bar. A few patrons glance unconcerned towards the door, but for the most part no one notices, no one pauses in conversation or rushes over to greet Maggie. Perfect. Just how she likes it. Dented license plates from just about every state decorate the walls. Padded seats in booths and stools by the bar appear on their last legs, deflated of any cushion and tears patched with duct tape.

Maggie leans halfway on the stool closest to the door. The bartender acknowledges her with a glance but doesn’t come over, carefully drying a few glasses with his towel. It’s all crap beers on tap and a jumbled array of alcohols against the mirrored back of the bar. A napkin slaps down in front of Maggie.

“Tequila,” Maggie says.

 The shot glass of clear liquid lands smoothly in the center of the napkin. Maggie contemplates the liquid for a few seconds before tossing it back and gesturing for another. The alcohol burns all the way down, much harsher than she remembers. It’s been awhile since she let herself drink tequila. But the warm fuzziness behind her eyes is still familiar.

The second glass is placed, but Maggie doesn’t want to rush this one. The dark bar is fairly no-nonsense, clearly designed for people who just want to get drunk. Dark tables and chairs fill the center and the obligatory pool table and dart boards line the back. A sole patron, female, circles the pool table in the midst of a game, lean and athletic in rumpled clothes that seem to have come straight from the gym. The woman laughs to herself, mouth moving slightly as she slowly leans forward with the confidence of a cat preparing to pounce. A intensity not unlike…

_Oh shit._

Maggie rockets the second shot back, dropping a twenty and leaving the door to the bar swinging. The bright sun hits her behind the eye socket with pain, but she powers forward in the general direction where she knows she parked. She contemplates waiting but the car has been parked at the Danvers house all week. Alex will recognize it. She drives a couple blocks away, stopping outside a used book store, leaving forty-five minutes later. That should be enough time for Alex to get back and Maggie to return without arousing suspicion.

Over the pounding in her chest, Maggie can’t help but feel a surge of confidence. She finally figured out at least of Ms. Alex Danvers’ secrets.

 

I line up the shot, trying to ignore the orange cue ball partially blocking my desired path. The cue ball hits the damnable obstruction and veers off course, the striped ball bouncing harmlessly a mere half-inch away from the pocket.

“Sonofabitch,” I mutter. I’m not really upset; the curse is as much the result of habit as anything.

“Language,” tsks my pool partner. “You’re not in a position to be attracting attention.”

“You mean from the three other patrons?” I retort. Light floods in briefly as another figure enters, taking the first seat, hunched over the bar and clothed in darkness. “Make that four.”

My partner shrugs. “Still,” she says. “Best be careful.” She knocks the orange ball in, navigating a ricochet to get the blue as well.

“Crap. I guess next round is on me,” I say.

“They always are,” she replies. “But you should maybe think about leaving.”

“Shit.” It’s nearly top of the hour. The door opens again, I should have realized it was getting into late afternoon. I toss back the rest of my beer, heading for the back.

“When will I see you again?” she calls.

“I don’t know. But I’ll try to make it soon.”

“Be careful, Alex.”

“Same to you.”

The run back aches, and not just from the alcohol burning through my muscles. It hurts to knowing I’m returning when the taste of freedom is still fizzing on my lips. But if I get caught it’s all over. No chance to escape. So I power forward.

I circle around the house before entering. The garage lies empty and the knot in my gut untangles. Dr. Sawyer is still out. It’s a simple matter to slink around to the garden and back inside. If anyone pulled my tracker’s record I would appear to have spent three hours in the library. Easy enough to tell someone I fell asleep if they even thought to question it. It’s not until I’m out of the shower that I hear Dr. Sawyer pacing about on the floor below. I let her roam. She knows better than to come up to the third floor, the only space I have any semblance of privacy. I roam in my space until late in the night, only descending to eat well after Thomas has served dinner and Dr. Sawyer has gone to bed. When I close my eyes I can still see the faded green on the pool table where I lined up my shot, still taste the beer, feel the smooth cue against my skin. I dream about angles and cue balls, something flickering on the edge of my vision that keeps throwing off the shot.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to cancel today’s session,” Dr. Sawyer announces the next morning. “I have some errands to run in National City. I expect to be back around four p.m.” She gazes at me intently, as if studying my reaction. As if I should have a reaction.

“Ok,” I say in between bites of cereal. “You do you.”

Dr. Sawyer shuffles from foot to foot. “I hope you’ll be able to entertain yourself,” she adds. I suppress an eye roll. Oh good grief. She moves in so I have company and now seems to think that left alone I’m helpless. What about the previous weeks I spent here?

“I’ll manage.”

“Ok.” Her tone is difficult to place. I wonder what kind of business would draw her away for the entire day. Or make her act so weird.

“Anything fun?” I ask.

“Excuse me?”

“In National City. Where you’re going today.”

“Um…” Dr. Sawyer shakes her head out of thought. “Just, um, the bank and other stuff. My apartment needs some tending to. Nothing business-related.”

So nothing related to me. Perfect.

“Well enjoy,” I say as nonchalantly as I can manage. Inside I’m screaming with joy. An entire day to myself. I bite back a grin, ducking my head to scoop more cereal. Dr. Sawyer moves distractedly about the kitchen, burning her toast and almost putting the creamer in the sink and spoon in the fridge. Something must be going really wrong for her in National City. I should feel bad, but I’m too excited planning out my day.

The planning, it turns out, is the most exciting portion. I’ve overestimated the extent to which I can wander unobserved in downtown Midvale. It only takes a single sideways glance for me to hightail it back to the house. So much for the pub or pulling together the items I need to otherwise get out of here.

Out of frustration more than boredom I head to the garden to take my vengeance out on the ever-encroaching weeds. No matter how often I come down here they are always creeping in, innocuous but relentless, taking over before one realizes just how deep their roots have gotten. The dirt flies as I wrench them from the soil, blood and guts smearing across my hands and onto my face when I pause to wipe away the sweat. My fist forms around the base of the next weed but as I pull, something sticks. Brushing the dig away, I see my benefactor has left me another gift. I pull the metal from the dirt, the spots gleaming where the mud falls away. A keychain with a bottle cap opener. On the tag, the words _All things in their time_ , inscribed.

As far as messages go it’s not subtle. The bar is fine, but they want me to remain here. Not for the first time I wonder how I came to have this guardian angel. How they know to reach me, and how I implicitly trust their messages. Even when I strongly disagree. The keychain taunts me and I scowl, turning over the etching.

Fine. But while Dr. Sawyer keeps trekking out to National City, I’m going to take whatever taste of freedom I can get.

 

For the next few days Maggie tests how far Alex will go. The first few times she pretends to run errands in National City, going so far as to offer a projected time of return. After that she begins leaving shortly after lunch, letting Alex fill in the blanks. Alex doesn’t go every time, but afternoons are the most likely. The first time Maggie lost track of Alex quickly. But every time since, Alex has beelined for the Hideaway where she spends a couple hours drinking beer and playing pool. It’s all oddly innocent, despite the fact that leaving the grounds and alcohol consumption are strictly prohibited under the terms of Alex Danvers’ house arrest.

Alex seems to play against herself and occasionally Maggie can hear Alex talking to herself, although she can’t quite make out the words. That is, until one afternoon when another young woman walks in the door, and after a few glances, joins Alex at the pool table.

From the body language it appears to be someone that Alex knows well. Old friends, maybe even former girlfriends. The thought makes Maggie twinge with jealousy. How is it that Alex so easily attracts people to her? A kind of natural magnetism, an aura of cool that overcomes her standoffishness, that makes people try to be her friend.

Alex cross her legs and leans in, lashes fluttering down – decidedly flirtatious behavior. The stranger appears to be reciprocating. Maggie feels her hackles rising. Alex shouldn’t be talking to anyone else. It could compromise all of her therapy to date. It could ruin the investigation. It was fine when Alex just wanted to blow off steam. But this is why Maggie had to follow her. This is why she needed to keep watch.

Maggie stands, her stool loudly scraping against the concrete floor. From the image reflected behind the bar, Alex appears to fall over, dropping out of sight below the pool table.

“Hello Alex,” Maggie says. She makes a point of not looking at Alex’s admirer, although even from the corner of her eye she can tell the other woman is gorgeous. For some reason that pisses her off even more and she can feel the frown building.

“Hey Al, who’s this?” The unknown voice forces Maggie to glance over. She stares at Maggie with open curiosity. Alex pulls herself up to standing, leaning on the pool table as if dropping to the ground were a totally natural reaction.

“Um, this, um… Is…Maggie.” Her friend doesn’t seem to notice but the pause digs into Maggie’s side. _She still doesn’t see you as a peer_. And maybe that’s for the best, her brain retorts.

“I see.” The tone is difficult to place. A little flirty, a bit dangerous. Jealousy?

“Cute,” the friend says. “But I see you haven’t had _the talk_ yet. She’s a bit territorial.”

Maggie feels the color rising up her neck. “It’s not like that. But you do need to go. I have business with Ms. Danvers.”

“Ooo, Ms. Danvers,” says the friend, smacking Alex on the shoulder. “You’re so fancy. As it happens I have other engagements too. Later, Al. Let me know if you’re around.”

“Bye Vicki,” Alex says.

The space between them is silent until the sound of Vicki’s footsteps faded across the bar.

“Who was that?” Maggie asks.

Alex’s throat bobs and she appears on the verge of passing out.

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“What? Why would I do that?”

Alex’s eyes widen into pools of molten chocolate, panic evident on her face.

“How long have you known?”

“A week.”

“A week!”

“Calm down,” Maggie says, taking her arm. “Just breathe. I’m not turning you in. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Why?”

“It’s harmless,” Maggie says. “At least as long as you’re alone.”

“Alone?”

“Well, I’m ok to be here because I’m part of your treatment and your case. But otherwise, a change of scene can be a good thing.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m your therapist, Alex. Not your babysitter. As long as I can trust that you will come back, it’s not something I believe needs to be shared with the court.” Maggie pauses. “In fact, I was thinking maybe we could make it a regular thing. I could even drive unless you prefer playing pool covered in sweat.”

 

I can barely breath and the edges of my vision are graying slightly. Dr. Sawyer – Maggie’s – joke comes through a haze of undefined emotion. My run here probably has not left me smelling all that great. I push the panic down the only way I know how. Bluster.

“Covered in sweat or not, I bet I can still beat you at pool.”

Dr. Sawyer raises a single eyebrow and I’m struck speechless again. The stuck-up doctor is not proving to be at all who I thought.

“You’re on,” she says. “But my question first, who was that? You looked cozy.”

“Old friend,” I say. Dr. Sawyer begins to expertly rack the balls. “From high school. We had a thing. A fling, not serious. While I was living at home in between med school and DEO.”

“Ah.”

Something about the way she answers makes me want to push. Plus I might be in over my head on this game. I’ll take any advantage I can to throw her off.

“Are you jealous?”

“No! Why on earth would I be jealous?”

“I don’t know, Mags.” _Oh, nice nickname_. I make a mental note on that. “Maybe you’re into me. Thomas thought so too.”

“What!” The incredulity is a bit excessive. Maggie clears her throat. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” she says more evenly. “But I don’t date women.”

“Oh? How tragic. You should really raise your standards, doc.” The wink is automatic, and I can’t deny the rush I feel when her cheeks pink. “Speaking of standards, I wouldn’t have guessed this to be your kind of spot.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dark, dirty. A place for people who drink to get drunk.”

“Cheers to that.”

“You know, for a shrink you don’t seem very happy with your life.”

“How so?”

“Hiding in the shadows. Watching other people. One week you sat in here and watched me? Watched the lonely and pathetic underbelly of Midvale getting drunk?”

“I guess I like the idea of being anonymous.”

“Why?” Maggie squirms and I laugh as she efficiently scatters the balls around the table. “Doesn’t feel so awesome in the hot seat, does it?”

“People can’t disappoint you then.”

“Oh, that’s dark. You feel disappointed by the people in your life.”

Maggie takes a gulp of beer, clearly nervous. “Careful, we don’t want to forget who is examining who.”

I raise my own bottle. “No, we do not,” I agree.


	12. Into the Night

Maggie can’t sleep. The entire evening kept playing on a loop in her head. Game after game of pool, all but one of which she won, during which Alex and Maggie just talked. Alex teased but seemed to know when to back off. They left as the after-dinner crowd began to funnel in and Maggie stopped and got them tacos to eat at the house, completely forgetting that Thomas would have real food prepared at the house.

When Maggie expressed dismay at having made Thomas prepare a dinner that would go to waste, Alex shushed her, saying he could get over it, it was a small price to pay for the most fun she’d had in years.

 _The most fun she’d had in years_.

Without a doubt, thinks Maggie. But she needs to stop thinking about that. Alex has finally reached the critical juncture in her story where the bunker makes an appearance. Tomorrow’s session will be important for Maggie to focus, to spot the gaps in memory or storytelling. She can’t be distracted by a poor night of sleep or fantasies of playing pool at a bar like a normal person. _Why is that even a thought_ , she wonders. Years in the bunker as a therapist, an impressive post-Dark career… It felt like what she wanted, even if the reality always rung a bit hollow compared to the version she imagined. Tonight is the first time Alex repeatedly called her by her first name. Forced into, of course, by not wanting to give away Maggie’s role as her therapist, but slowly becoming more natural as the night wore on and the alcohol lubricated their uncomfortable social interaction.

Can she keep up with Alex every night? Almost certainly not, but how then to prevent her from going out and interacting, being contaminated by the Vickis and other ex-girlfriends of the world? Maggie rolls over, not sure if she’s too warm or too cold. The fitted sheet seems to be coming undone, bunching uncomfortably. She kicks the sheet off in frustration. Maybe a glass of water.

Occasional hallway nightlights prevent Maggie from stumbling too much as she makes her way into the kitchen. It’s a cloudy night but must be a full moon behind the clouds for the night sky is bright enough to make out the branches of the forest outside. She easily drains the glass and refills it before heading back up. Maybe it’s just stretching of the legs, but the short walk has relaxed her. It’s not until Maggie has her hand on the door that she hears the cry in the distance.

For a moment she thinks she may have imagined it. An old house in the middle of the night, who won’t think they heard an unexplained sound? But the noise comes again, a choked sob, seemingly from the floor above. In the silence that follows only the ticking of a clock can be heard, urging Maggie back to bed, stop wasting time, you’re making up stories. Carefully Maggie sets the water glass down inside the room and creeps towards the center staircase, gazing up into the darkness as if the answer would simply present itself.

The stairs creak with age as she ascends, unable to quell her curiosity. _Something_ made that noise. _And Alex is the only one up here_. One plus one must equal two.

One step below the third floor Maggie pauses, the ticking clock just barely audible, drowned out by her own ragged breathing. The cry doesn’t repeat itself but there is a voice. It’s enough for Maggie to will herself across the invisible barrier.

Despite having never been on this floor, Alex’s room is easy to identify as the only room with a closed door. The voice continues speaking inaudibly.

_Now what?_

She’s come this far, it seems the logical thing to do would be to knock or open the door and ask Alex if she’s alright. But Maggie isn’t supposed to be here. Seconds tick by as Maggie weighs the options. Curiosity wins.

It’s a spacious room with large canopy bed occupying the center space. The curtains have been left open, leaving the furniture and edges sharply etched in gray against the darkness. In the center of the bed Alex twitches, curled up in a ball that is half in, half out of the covers. She lays as if asleep but for the eyes open wide, dark unnatural shadows clouding the socket and giving her an almost demonic appearance. Alex sits up, facing Maggie directly.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The tone reverberates deeply, much deeper than normal, sending chills up Maggie’s arms.

“I thought I heard something.”

“You should have kept it to yourself.”

Alex doesn’t move from her seated position but rotates her neck slowly in a cracking motion, eyes never wavering. The darkness of the room seems to bend towards Alex, as if acknowledging her superior power, her right to control. Maggie resists the urge to kneel before her patient.

“Maybe I should just go,” Maggie says. The fog that filled her mind the instant she entered the third floor is thicker than ever. A constant buzz of insects in her brain that drowns out all logical thought.

Alex stands, rising to a powerful height. She’s always been taller, but this much taller? Maggie can’t remember. That feeling rises again, willing her to submit, electricity zipping across the surface of her skin, every hair at attention. The air is too heavy to breathe and she’s choking, gasping, falling at last down to a knee where at least there is some relief.

“Pathetic human,” says Alex. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

Maggie starts awake with a painful inhale. The sheets cling to her bare skin, damp with sweat. Everything in the room is as it should be, dark, the grandfather clock’s steady tick audible in the deafening silence.

 _Just a dream_.

Maggie strips off the damp night shirt, rolling to the other side of the bed. That’s when she spots the glass of water, just inside the closed door where she placed it.

There’s a logical explanation. She obviously stepped outside for only a second before returning to bed, forgetting to move the water glass to the nightstand and then quickly falling into that bizarre dream. Nonetheless, Maggie shivers in the warm room, the tiny hairs on her arm raised in anticipation.

 

I don’t sleep well. I suppose it’s no surprise. We drank a lot last night and while I’m rarely hung over, alcohol doesn’t tend to improve my chronic sleep problems. But at least it’s a dreamless night, the one upside to the sleep of the dead caused by intoxication.

“It’s been awhile,” says Maggie with a smile when I enter the kitchen. A joke.

“Yeah. A good – what? Ten? Twelve hours,” I correct, catching the time. Man, I really slept in.

“Well, yes. But I was actually referring to since we continued our work together.”

“I see.”

Dr. Sawyer is in. She crosses her legs on the stool. “Why don’t you make some coffee. I believe when we last spoke you were discussing how Lena and Kara came to know each other prior to the Dark Years.”

“That’s right.” I find I can’t catch Maggie – Dr. Sawyer’s – eye as I speak. I let the escape of the bar take over last night and it’s more difficult than I expect to step back.

 

It quickly became a regular thing for us to all hang out after work – myself, Kara, Lena, usually joined by one or two others such as Sam and Winn. I’m still convinced that Lena set up that first run-in as a power move. She wanted me to know that she knew about Kara. That she could bring it all down. I resented her for it, but that faded as our time together became something else. A respite, an escape from the world.

When the volcano first erupted it was, in Kara-speak, below the fold news. Notable mostly for the power of the blast and destruction, but widely considered low impact occurring as it did in a relatively unpopulated corner of the world. That of course changed quickly as the ash began to spread and impact weather in major cities thousands of miles away.

During all this time things continued as usual at DEO. We all showed up for work every morning and pretended our projects mattered. But at lunch and in between work talk increased, worried whispers about the news and whether we should be doing more, or perhaps less. Faced with the threat however, we reacted the same way most people did, as if nothing were the matter. In retrospect it feels strange that we continued on with our jobs, packing lunch, going out to happy hours when crops were failing, darkness was becoming more present, and the streets were filled with riots and looting.

I think it wasn’t until seven weeks in that it hit home how devastating this event would be. While we had carried on as normal, Lena had taken to coming in only after lunch. I soon learned she was spending her mornings clearing out an old DEO space underground. This was a couple weeks before the government announced the opening of its own bunkers. She called me into her office and closed the blinds.

“Have you been following the news?” she asked.

“It’s tough to avoid,” I responded. At that she nodded and proceeded to roll out a blueprint across her desk. Instinctively I leaned forward. Her plan was immediately obvious. The blueprint identified living spaces, a hydroponic farm, air ventilators…everything a group of people would need to survive for an extended period of time.

“I’ve had Winn working on machinery,” Lena said. “He doesn’t know why yet but I plan to tell him later today. I need you to review and make sure we have everything we need from a biological perspective.”

“I mean…I’m not an architect.”

“I know,” Lena interrupted. “I’m taking you there for an in-person tour. I need your assessment on the number of lives we can safely support.”

“Support?”

“Come on, Alex, you’re not stupid. We both see where this mess is headed. Life is about to become unsustainable on earth.”

“So we’re going below the earth.”

“Bingo.”

“But who?”

“That’s why I need you to tell me how many,” Lena said. “You obviously have a spot, and Kara as well. Me. I’ve identified a couple others with critical skill sets. But it will come down to the numbers. That’s why I’m not making an announcement. No one can know. Do you understand?”

“Kara gets a spot?”

Lena nodded.

“No strings?”

“Kara is my friend Alex.”

“Right. Sorry.” I released a breath and tried to hide my shaking hands. The reality I’d been living in for weeks seemed to be crashing down and I wondered how I’d gone day in and day out doing nothing. Mentally I tried to count how many people I’d seen that day. People in my apartment building, on the street, the bus, working in the lab, waiting in line at the sandwich shop. Hundreds upon hundreds of people, most of them strangers but all with their own stories and own tales to tell. All of them with lives and paths and hundreds upon hundreds of other people that they too saw in a given day…

I realized I was holding my breath again and sat before I passed out.

“Are you ok?” Lena asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”

 

My hand shakes and a bit of coffee spills as I tip it back for a drink. Maggie hops up and hands me a paper towel.

“You had to decide?” she asks.

I shake my head, dabbing the towel against my shirt. “No. Lena decided. I just gave her a number.”

“And what was that number?”

I close my eyes. I can still see the list of names Lena typed up and handed to me for inspection before we began the evacuation. Names filled with promise, now names of the dead.

“Sixty,” I say. “Sixty souls.”


	13. Hank

_Fifty-eight dead, Alex Danvers the sole survivor. Sixty people in the bunker._

I can practically hear Dr. Sawyer’s brain whirring. I already know the next question. To her credit she decides to ignore the discrepancy for the time being.

“That must have been very stressful,” she says.

“Yes.” Unexpectedly my voice catches in my throat. For a second Dr. Sawyer’s expression flickers, she becomes Maggie, but the lapse is quickly corrected.

“What happened next?” she asks. I close my eyes and let the memories wash over my skin.

 

Once Lena told me the plan, everything moved at light speed. I scarcely remember my first trip through the bunker. It was nothing more than an empty space. So immense, I remember thinking. The calculations weren’t hard. Minimum space per person was the least of our issues, it all came down to the water supply and hydro-farm. How many people could that support with allowance for the occasional failure?

Lena must have had some kind of list already for she began contacting people before we even made it back to the office. I never got the chance to say good-bye to those that didn’t make the cut. Outside the office building Lena stopped me.

“Go home, Alex. Pack your stuff. Help Kara pack if she needs it. I want you to be in the bunker when others start arriving.”

“But I don’t know the way…”

“Mr. Hank Henshaw,” said Lena, interrupting me. A dark imposing man stepped discretely forward. I had the impression of a shadow moving more than an independent creature. “My personal head of security. He will escort you wherever you need to go. He is going to be managing operations in the bunker and has the location and all the relevant codes.”

With that, Lena nodded and left me standing on the sidewalk with a linebacker of a man I’d never met but had presumably been around. I wondered what he’d seen, what he knew about me.

“Mr. Henshaw…?”

“Hank is fine,” he said. His voice was rich as melted chocolate, deep as the dark color of his skin, warming and welcoming. I trusted Hank implicitly from that moment. He never said it, but somehow I knew that he’d been watching me, that he knew about my work, my sister, and my uncertainty with Lena. Even though his priority should have been with Lena, I never questioned that if I needed it, if Kara needed it, that Hank would swoop in and protect us.

“Everything is going to be ok,” he said in that authoritative, calming voice that invited trust.

“Yeah?”

“I promise.”

Kara met me at the apartment. Lena had already called and with her superspeed she was packed and anxious to make sure I was settled. Hank immediately took to Kara and I could tell Kara felt the same. In a weird way he reminded me of our father, although the two men could not have been more different. Hank was calm and thoughtful where my father was prone to hotheadedness. But both of them carried an innate gentleness that belied their appearance, as well as a way of speaking volumes with very few words.

Hank led us to the bunker with our bags. I’ll never forget the moment he left. We weren’t sealed in yet, the reality of our situation hit home. Those two bags contained everything I now owned in the world. The odds and ends, the clothes and trinkets suddenly felt like the most valuable items in the world and simultaneously the most worthless. After all, how could I assign a greater worth to these items than to the numerous others left behind merely due to size, weight, or redundancy? My bag seemed to reflect the sad truth of my reality, how subject we all were to the whims of chance; and our willingness to reassign value in order to reinforce belief in decisions already made.

Hank returned several times with various persons in tow. Without the sun to mark time I’m not sure how long it took, but it seemed that within the span of about twelve hours all sixty people had been accounted for. I knew about a third of the group, the rest were strangers, but every one with their dedicated role. We all gathered round as Lena and Hank sealed the bunker entrance. If you have ever seen such a thing, it’s oddly anticlimactic. Nothing more than plates pressing into position, the sound of air being removed from the entrance, and then…silence.

Hank jotted down the code to open the seal. Even Lena didn’t have that information. We all stood about for a few minutes and then people began to get to know each other in that anxious, rushed manner of freshmen who want to start college off with as many friends as possible, willing to overlook flaws big and small to avoid being cast as the school loser. I was lucky in that respect since I had Kara, and already knew a fair number of people. Instead I distracted myself by getting to work.

Since I was there predominantly because of my medical training, I spent the first few days running everyone through a physical and double checking our medical stores. Others followed my lead and within the first week we were a bustling micro-community. Lena continued to conduct research and we all contributed to DEO while spending the rest of our time on bunker duties. Everything bunker-related ran through Hank. He was the captain of the ship, efficiently dealing with the day-to-day matters of keeping a group of sixty people alive.

 

“So what went wrong?” Maggie interrupts.

“Excuse me?”

“Ultimately it seems Mr. Henshaw was not up to the task.” I bite the inside of my cheek. I shouldn’t be interpreting her comment as a tease for alleged murder but I have to appreciate the dark sense of humor it implies.

“He did a pretty amazing job for five years,” I point out. “It’s not easy. Lots of people lose their shit when forced into close quarters for an extended period of time. Why do you think astronauts and scientists sent to the South Pole undergo such extensive psychological testing? We didn’t have any of that and yet we made it nearly five years with scarcely an incident. You of all people should know how impressive that is.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t talk shit about him!” Instead of finding it funny, I’m suddenly very angry on Hank’s behalf. Who the hell is Maggie to question how smoothly things ran? Everything was fine until…

I close my eyes but as usual I see only the fog. Until something. Until the shadow. I open my eyes before I make it through the cloud. I already know what rests on the other side. The bodies, stiff as dolls, hardened blood staining the concrete floor a rust brown, the odd coolness, a feeling of airiness as if reaching but finding my limbs ethereal and unable to make contact.

“Did you spend much time with Hank in the bunker?”

“Yes.” By the third year I was basically his second-in-command, often left in charge of things. But I don’t share that. Maggie hasn’t earned the right today. Correction: Maggie isn’t in today.

Dr. Sawyer flips through a folder idly, pretending to read it. “When you were found the rescue team noted you seemed very comfortable with weaponry. Is that something you learned from Hank?”

“He taught anyone who wanted to learn. Five years is a long time without much to do. And security was important. Is important.”

“It certainly is. But your training seems to have been above and beyond. Why is that?”

Dr. Sawyer’s eyes gaze at me intently.

“I liked it.”

“That’s obvious. But enough to spend hundreds of hours with Hank Henshaw learning combat techniques? Neglecting other responsibilities? That suggests something more. I’d like to know what that is.”

“How do you know how much time I spent training?”

“It’s all in the logs,” Dr. Sawyers says, closing the folder firmly and leaning forward. “This is why your case doesn’t look good, Alex. You may have gone into the bunker as a scientist, but based upon the records, you were a fully trained mercenary by the time they pulled you out.”

“They aren’t wrong.” Oops. That’s not something I meant to say aloud.

“I didn’t hear that,” she mumbles towards her notebook. A strand of wavy hair falls from behind her ear. Lines etch out from the corners of her eyes. Dr. Sawyer suddenly appears very, very tired.

“Maybe we should stop for today,” she says.

“Maybe we should stop this entirely.” My temperature rises too quickly to be stopped. Not for the first time I hate this part of myself that most resembles my father and his hot temper. “I hardly see the point if you’re just here to confirm the worst. Why not lock me away now?”

“I’m trying to help, Alex. I need you to give me honest answers.”

“Don’t call me Alex!!” The world is black and red, edged in grey. Dr. Sawyer shrinks beneath me. I’m not sure if I’ve stood up or if she is actually growing smaller in fear. Her terror energizes me further. I want Dr. Sawyer to be frightened, I want her terrified; to run away, to leave me and tell stories that make others think she is crazy, has lost her touch and cannot be trusted. I want her destroyed, utterly and completely. Carved out until all that remains is a husk.

The venom spills effortlessly from my lips. I’ve observed her weaknesses, her insecurity, and I know just how to break her down. Every crack splits further, deeper, but she doesn’t fall apart. She holds it together enough to stand stiffly and leave the room. But with my heightened sense of being I still hear when she falls apart on her way up the stairs. The sound brings a smile to my face and for no particular reason, I find that I am laughing.

 

The grey choking of the nightmare is back, only this time it isn’t a nightmare, Maggie isn’t asleep. She intended to provoke Alex, but whatever just happened down in the kitchen went well beyond anything she could have anticipated. Maggie wipes the puddle of tears from her cheeks, chest tight and the odd air of this house difficult to breathe. One of the cleaning staff glance in from a side room and Maggie attempts to hide her blotchy face. She doesn’t need anyone to see. It’s bad enough she broke down before making it back to the guest room.

The scratchy fabric of the comforter grounds Maggie. _This is real_. She closes her eyes and lets the tactile sensation fill her brain. _You are real. You are here. This is real. This is here._

Somewhat calmed, Maggie opens her eyes. Breathing is a little bit easier now that the door is closed. Everything was going fine until she suggested stopping. Her questions set Alex on edge, but that was often the case. But enough for Alex to become…whatever that was?  

Maggie half-laughs to herself helplessly, the imagine of a dark, elongated Alex with shadows for eyes peering down upon her. Better keep that away from a jury. She’d go down for murder regardless of what might have happened. She shakes her head firmly. Weird dreams, too much to drink last night… Obviously these ideas are all products of an overactive imagination. She needs a good night of sleep is all. Alex lost her temper and Maggie freaked out. That’s all.

Maggie rubs her face. Her cheeks are still damp. She’s clearly not fit for this. Not up to the task of working with Alex Danvers. Alex’s attorney is on speed dial. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hello.” The calm, deep voice seems to push away the dark tendrils that still reach for Maggie, even here, two floors above her unpredictable patient. Perhaps it’s because his voice feels so sympathetic, for instead of saying anything meaningful, Maggie releases a choked sob, and the floodgates open once again.

The attorney says nothing, but between sobs a low hum vibrates through the phone, vaguely reminiscent of a lullaby Maggie’s mother used to sing to her as a child. She should feel shame and embarrassment at this open display of weakness but something in the attorney’s response makes it alright.

“What can I do for you Ms. Sawyer?” he asks, as Maggie’s sobs quiet into sniffles and then unsteady breaths.

“I wanted to let you know that Alex has asked me to leave,” Maggie says. “I don’t think I can continue on this case. I don’t think it’s the right thing for her. Or me.”

A long silence fills the line during which Maggie can imagine him standing, facing the window that overlooks National City. Home. With this behind her, she can go home again. Back to her apartment where she is free to wander without bumping into her patient, without these sudden outbursts. Free to see other patients that have uncomplicated problems, patients that want to talk about their experience. The thought leaves her empty, void of emotion either positive or negative.

“Only I can dismiss you,” the attorney finally says. “Do you wish to resign?”

“No. I mean…” Maggie can see the attorney, arms crossed, frowning as he listens, waiting for her response. _What’s it going to be Sawyer? Are you in or are you out?_ She takes care to catch her breath before speaking.

“I want to do what’s best for Alex,” Maggie says. “I’m afraid I may have pushed her too far.”

“She needs to be pushed. That’s why I hired you. Your references said you refused to put up with bullshit.” Maggie starts at his unexpectedly crass language.

“They did?”

“Yes. Alex can be stubborn. She needs someone equally stubborn who can keep up.” He pauses again. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I will call you back in twenty-four hours. During that time, I don’t care what you do. You may work with Alex, you may take the day off, you can spend the day moving back to National City. But in twenty-four hours I will call and you can let me know then if you would like to continue working with Alex or not. I only ask that you spend some time thinking about your decision. Alex needs you. I’ve gotten to know her well enough that if she is trying to push you away, you must be doing something right. But I will not force you to stay. Does this sound agreeable?”

Exceedingly, almost unfairly so, thinks Maggie. “Yes. Yes, it does.” The tightness in her chest evaporates.

“Excellent. And Maggie?”

“Sir?”

“Either way, I know you’ll make the right decision.”

The line clicks in her hand. The future remains uncertain, but everything is solid again. The vision from the kitchen fading from memory.

 _Alex needs you_. The phrase echoes, innocuous but growing in intensity. Maggie sees herself reclining in a chair, taking notes while Alex talks. She holds Alex’s hand as she cries at a breakthrough. Then embracing at the end of the trial, a perfect happy ending. Alex stares into Maggie’s eyes, lips parted, mouthing the words…

“Fuck,” says Maggie, snapping herself out of it. She really needs to get some sleep. Maggie pulls the pillow down to the end of the bed, curling up around the puffy cloud.

Twenty-four hours to decide. But she does not need to decide now. She can sleep now.

Humming her mother’s lullaby, the Danvers house drops away and Maggie falls into a blissfully dreamless sleep.


	14. Bunker

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

I squeeze the edges of the sink, cool stainless steel warming quickly against my warm palms. At times like this I wish for Kara’s super-strength, that I could crumple the sides of the sink, have tangible evidence of the size and power of my frustration.

It’s happening again.

I feel myself bobbing in the air like a balloon barely tethered to the ground. I can’t feel the edges of my body. I am disappearing in place, interacting with the world but via a control panel located light years away. Delayed responses, patchy communications. I see what’s going on but imperfectly, filtered through an uneven internet connection.

The stainless steel is warm and slick now. I shift my hands to find a cool spot, something to trigger sensation so I know I am still alive. Why can’t I feel my skin? Every inch tingles. I am here but not here. There is only one solution I’ve found.

Thomas is good about keeping the kitchen knives locked, up but I know other ways. I need something fast, before my feet leave the ground and I float away. I swing my left hand high. It crashes into the island table with a satisfying clang. What time is it? Will anyone hear? The questions are distant cries against the sharp pain that streaks like lightning out from the point of contact, up to my elbow and down to the tips of my fingers.

I take the first real breath I’ve had in…minutes? Hours? Outside the sun is setting, twilight’s grey deepening into navy. At least the staff aren’t around. A dirty plate rests to my left. Thomas has already come and gone. I remember nothing about the meal. The fork’s tines glint dully. It would be too hard to break the skin but it gives me an idea.

I wash the fork quickly, then pass the dull points over the flames of the stove. I don’t look as I press the red metal against my abdomen. The heat sears and the odor of burning flesh rises subtly but unmistakable. It’s good but the itch remains.

The staff have improved in recent weeks. The letter opener has been hidden, probably locked away, as well as scissors and other sharp-edged items that used to reside in the library desk. But one person is new here.

Maggie’s bedroom door is closed and the room appears dark. I avoid the creaky spots on the floor and slip into the guest bathroom. Surprisingly, the doctor appears to be a bit of a slob, with bottles and knick-knacks scattered across the counter with no apparent logic. All the better for being able to snag what I need. The tiny sewing scissors will do perfectly.

The corner presses into my flesh until a dark red drop appears. My knees nearly give way from the sheer relief it brings, so much better than the now-throbbing burn or dull bruise on my forearm. I am centered, returned to my body. I sink to the ground, leaning against the sink. The edge of the blade tickles against the uncut skin. I want to make this last, so I cut slowly, shallowly, watching the red line grow in length and width with blood until the pain erases the fog. Finally alive, I close my eyes.

“Alex!” The sharp scissor edge slices into my fingerpad as I start. Oh, this does not look good. Maggie stands in the bathroom doorway, rumpled and puffy-eyed but wholly alert. Here I am laying on her bathroom floor with my shirt pulled partway up, blood on my stomach, probably looking like I’m strung out on drugs.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, beginning to stand. The fresh cut screams in displeasure.

“It looks like you’re cutting yourself.”

“Ok, so it is what it looks like. But I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” says Maggie. She yanks the hand towel from its rack, pressing it against my tender skin.

“No!” I yell. Maggie backs away, blinking rapidly. “Don’t touch,” I say in a softer tone.

“It’s just blood,” Maggie says. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

Gingerly I maneuver into the tub, taking care to avoid dripping on the rug. Now that the high is wearing off everything hurts.

“At least give me the scissors?”

I hand them over without a fuss. Maggie sets them aside, eyes never leaving me. I can’t believe I didn’t think to move. Shame and self-pity wash over me at resorting this this cheap trick. There isn’t much damage but it hurts to twist in any direction and my left hand is still throbbing from its encounter with the kitchen table. I won’t let Maggie see me cry.

“Would you like some help?” Maggie’s voice is so quiet that I almost think I’ve imagined it. Squeezing my eyes shut I nod.

“But…But use gloves.” Her brow furrows, either in thought or irritation.

“Ok.”

A clattering of bottles being pushed aside, rustling, and then a presence crouches beside me, still smelling of sleep. She doesn’t say a word as she cleans and bandages. Uneven breaths match the rhythm of her activities, fast and slow, quickly prodding then letting the gauze settle. She strips the gloves off with a practiced move, studying her handiwork.

“Why?”

I debate not answering. She won’t push it, won’t ask again if I say nothing or pretend I didn’t hear. I don’t think Maggie really wants to know. She only feels compelled to ask. Knowing this I shouldn’t respond.

 

Maggie hopes Alex can’t feel her hands shaking as applies the final bandages. Thank goodness the scissors were sharp and Alex had the good sense to sterilize them. The wounds are clean and should heal neatly. It’s difficult to ignore the scars though. Signs of previous episodes with implements that were perhaps not so sharp, or not so small. At least a couple appear to have required stitches. Alex’s abdomen flexes as Maggie tries to work as quickly as possible, but whether through sheer willpower or brute stubbornness, Alex does not once make any other indication of pain.

Maggie desperately wants to say something useful. Shouldn’t her training have prepared her to deal with this exact situation? Yet she isn’t sure what to say. It somehow feels very different to be bandaging up her patient’s self-inflicted cuts than sitting in a thick leather chair listening to the event. The difference between real life and a movie, Maggie thinks. This isn’t something she can document and box away into a single session. There is no clear start or end to Alex’s scars, no date. They exist with her in a circle reaching both forwards and backwards, unending in its cycle.

_Why?_

She’s worked with cutters before but this feels more personal, as if she has failed Alex. First that outburst, every hurtful thing Alex could think to say, and now this. And in Maggie’s bathroom, suggesting getting caught was part of the plan. This is punishment, Alex’s way of telling Maggie she has been found wanting. At least they both agree on that.

“Blood is a powerful thing,” Alex says. “A life force.”

“What?” asks Maggie.

“You wanted to know why. I did it because I needed to know I was alive.”

Maggie files that away for closer thought on another day.

“How long?”

“I don’t really know. Long enough.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not why you’re here. And it’s been awhile. In the past.”

Not so distant past, thinks Maggie. True some scars are faded, nearly invisible but for her up-close inspection, but others appear far more recent, within the past year even.

“Well this is in the past now too. No more.” With downturned eyes Alex nods. “It’s late.” It’s not really. But the effects of her power nap have been offset by Alex’s little stunt. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Please. Don’t leave me alone.” Alex’s hands splay open. “I’m not ready to be alone.”

“I’m really tired…”

“I just need someone close by,” Alex says.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

“The floor?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

Maggie shrugs. “Doesn’t that seem silly when there’s a big bed?”

“You want me to share the bed with you?”

“No, that’s not what I…” Maggie’s face flushes. Why does Alex always seem to twist her words around? “I mean, I guess I could sleep on the floor.” _What are you doing_ , her brain screams. Maggie already knows she won’t get a wink of sleep on the floor. Her back preemptively begins to ache.

“How about we camp out in the living room?” Alex says, face brightening. “Kara and I used to do this when she was young. We’ll get sheets and make a big tent. There are two couches so no one needs to sleep on the floor.”

Maggie blinks. It’s actually a great compromise. A couch isn’t quite a bed, but it’s miles better than the floor, and avoids the awkwardness of sleeping alongside her patient. _Former patient_ , she corrects.

“Sure,” Maggie says.

Alex opens all the windows, allowing light from the nearly full moon to stream into the room. They rearrange the formal sitting room, sliding the couches so they face each other a few feet apart. Alex props poles into the corners and they begin the delicate work of draping the sheets. Maggie bumps into the sheet trying to get into their makeshift tent and the whole thing comes down, causing her to curse and Alex to giggle.

_Well at least she’s feeling better_ , Maggie thinks.

Their second attempt is sturdier, and they both climb through the opening, blankets and pillows in tow. The sheet glows softly with moonlight as they each rearrange pillows and cushions, blankets fluttering as they tuck in. A few feet away Alex sighs.

“Thanks,” she says in a hushed voice.

“Anytime.”

For awhile Maggie listens as Alex tosses to and fro. Slowly the breathing of her patient settles and calms until Maggie is sure Alex must be asleep. Even with eyes closed Maggie feels the presence of another person. How long has it been since she shared a room with someone? Sophomore year of college? Memories of that largely consist of being unable to sleep because her roommate stayed up all night. But this breathing side by side in the dark isn’t so bad. Relaxing, even. Tandem breaths fade into the grey light of their tent.

Maggie’s hand slips beneath her nightshirt as she touches her abdomen, mirroring the cut on Alex’s torso. It’s much darker than before. Unexpectedly, Alex rolls over.

“Are you ok?” Alex asks.

“Are you? Your stomach must be hurting.”

“It is.”

Alex pulls up her shirt to reveal the gash, angry and red.

“What happened to the bandages?”

“I’m not sure.”

Maggie sits up, reaching. Her fingers feel cold against Alex’s warm skin.

“That feels nice,” Alex says. Maggie slides off the couch, kneeling alongside Alex’s outstretched body. Her lips brush the exposed skin of Alex’s abdomen. Muscles flex as Alex arches into her lips with a sigh.

“Careful. You’ll hurt yourself,” Maggie says.

“Is it me you’re worried about?”

_I think so._

Maggie isn’t sure why she feels so anxious. Alex strokes Maggie’s face, pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Then kiss me.”

Maggie pauses, inches from Alex’s lips. “Wait. I’ve never done this before.”

“So stop waiting,” Alex says.

 

Maggie yawns loudly with a stretch. It’s a satisfying combination. The sleep hasn’t fully left her eyelids but the telltale signs of waking up are present. Bits and pieces of the world are returning, memories in reverse order; half-remembered fragments of dreams. How much of it was dreaming? Pale cream bedsheets drape overhead, catching the light from the open window. Building a bedsheet tent: not a dream.

A few feet away Alex grins at her, clearly having been watching for some time. Maggie grabs her chest. A shirt. She heaves a sigh of relief. Getting up close and personal with Alex: a dream. A simultaneously pleasant and moderately disturbing dream.

It’s all very normal, Maggie reminds herself. Patients regularly fall in love with their therapist and vice versa. Superficially anyway. All that emotional unloading, it’s the basis of human pair bonding. Hardly surprising she would be having these dreams given how intensely they have been working together, even living under the same roof. But obviously all the work of a bored subconscious, because Maggie doesn’t date women.

“How long have you been up?” Maggie asks.

“A little while,” Alex responds. “Good dream? You were moaning.”

Maggie fights the urge to duck under the blanket. “Nightmare actually,” she lies.

“Oh sorry. Wanna talk about it, doc?”

“Actually I’m taking today off,” Maggie says. “I need to do some thinking.”

Alex frowns. “Is this about yesterday?”

“In a word, yes.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“I need more than that. I need an apology.”

“Ok…I’m sorry?”

“For…”

“For using your scissors? For making a mess? For scaring you?”

“Alex, the self-harm is bad, but you know I’m upset about before that, right? In the kitchen?”

“The kitchen?”

Maggie stares at Alex in disbelief. Is Alex acting or is she witnessing another memory lapse? Possibly the same kind that prevents her from knowing what happened in the bunker. Alex’s face takes on an expression of horror.

“You remember?” Maggie asks.

“No, but…” Alex claps her hands over her mouth.

“What?”

“I…I don’t know. Sometimes I do awful things. And for some reason I don’t remember.” Alex’s voice drops to a whisper. “Did I hurt you?”

“Just my feelings,” Maggie says, curiosity piqued in spite of herself.

“I am so sorry,” Alex says. “I swear I don’t remember it. I really like you. As my therapist. I had this guy before you who was absolutely the worst. Please. I swear I’ll be better. I’m trying to open up. I’m trying.”

Maggie takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

“Alex, can I ask you one question? One question, one honest answer. After that, we are going to put this behind us and have a normal, no-therapy day. We’ll see what happens after.”

“Deal.”

Maggie swallows hard. Direct is best.

“Have you ever hurt someone during one of your memory lapses?”

Alex stares at the end of the couch, unblinking.

“Yes.”


	15. The Passage of Time

Maggie won’t even look at me.

“Let me explain…”

“Tell me,” Maggie interrupts.

“What?” The floor feels as if it’s tilting. The tent that seemed fun a moment ago is suddenly suffocating, thick with judgement. And rightly so. _You’re a monster._ Control, Alex. From afar I draw on the memory of Kara, easing me through the panic, helping me suppress the beast.

“Right now. No lies, no side stories,” Maggie says. Her voice cuts through the mist, grounding, solid.

“I, uh. I got upset with Sam.”

“In the bunker?”

“No, before that. In college.”

Maggie goes very quiet. “You don’t remember it?”

“Not really. It was after the hospital. She said something, I don’t even remember what, it was a joke. I was in a bad mood, took it the wrong way. Things escalated.” My skin tries to crawl away from me, wanting no part of this. Even the vague memory makes me want to vomit.

“I remember getting angry,” I continue. “But then it fades. After that I just remember Kara. I asked when she got there and she told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That Sam called. We’d fought. She was in the hospital with a broken leg.”

I can’t bring myself to share the remaining details. Like how when I came to Kara had me strapped down to a bed. Or how it wasn’t just Sam’s leg that was injured, how she sported massive bruises on her torso. The crack on the wall told the rest. I didn’t just attack Sam. I threw her across the room. But who would believe that story? Fortunately for me at the time, almost no one. Privately I learned the details from Sam and Kara, but publicly we made up a story about Sam falling down the stairs. I don’t remember what I told the dean about the damage to the room.

“We broke up after that.”

“So it wasn’t Sam’s fault?”

“Huh?”

“Before you said it was because Sam grew different. Crueler. Now it seems to be because you hurt her.”

“Yeah.” The memories muddle. Did I confuse them? “Maybe it was both. I think after that she had a hard time being around me. But it never happened again,” I add quickly. “Never again.”

“Until yesterday?”

“Yes.” _And the missing hours in the bunker. Maybe._

Maggie releases a breath slowly. “Thank you for sharing, Alex.”

Her expression is difficult to read and a sudden fear surges through me. She can leave. Anytime. Head up to the guest room, pack her few belongings and be gone in the span of less than twenty minutes. My chest tightens painfully. Her next words are the exact opposite of what I expect.

“I am taking today off,” she says. “So no more questions for now, no session later.”

“Just today?”

She pauses a little bit too long before answering. “Your sessions should resume in a day or so.”

And with that, she flips the blanket off and ducks through the sheets forming the tent opening. The change is so abrupt I’m left speechless. That ball of ice in my gut wasn’t just my imagination. Whatever happened yesterday was the real deal, this could be the end. The non-committal answer confirms it.

“Oh…good morning Noelle,” Maggie says, her confidence from a moment ago forgotten. Her embarrassment at being found sleeping in a play tent is palpable. Or maybe it’s just the embarrassment of cozying up to an accused murderer. One she almost definitely believes did the deed.

Absent-mindedly I find myself picking at the edges of the bandage. It itches like hell under there. I have to convince Maggie – Dr. Sawyer – to stay on. She’s a bit of a stooge, sure, but all in all has proven surprising and sharper than the average overeducated dolt. What can I do?

Outside the tent, Noelle begins to vacuum, interrupting my thoughts. With irritation I exit, shooting her a dirty look on my way up to the third floor. Maybe I should suggest we move the tent up here, thereby avoiding interruptions. I’d have to pull out the sleeping pads since I don’t have couches but that could be fun, more like actually camping. Maggie might enjoy that more as well. It hits me then that I have no idea what Maggie likes. Every activity we’ve done has been my idea, leading the way like an overeager puppy, followed by my indulgent human.

 _Of course she lets you decide, she’s being paid to act nice to you_.

That’s…sort of true. I mean, she doesn’t _have_ to spend her spare time with me. But she chooses to because… _Because it’s expected_. I’m glad I’m alone so I don’t have to explain the red flush I feel on my cheeks. Stupid, Danvers, falling for that trap of calling her by first name. Dr. Sawyer is your therapist, not a friend. If she wants a day to herself I shouldn’t presume I’m part of that. I’m her job, assuming she decides to stay on. I have to find her and convince her.

With an increasing sense of self-loathing I roam between the first floor and the kitchen, hoping to chance across the good doctor. It’s my house, so there’s no reason to avoid the second floor with the guest room, but I want to avoid the appearance of lurking. I swing by the garage every half hour just to see if that gray car is still here. What is she doing?

As the sun rises high and begins its slow descent a familiar feeling comes over me. Time stretches like taffy, impossibly long and unending, folding in on itself and repeating the process hour by hour, growing ever more limber and fluid, ceasing to be a linear progression but a circle with no beginning and no end. Memories of the long expanse of time in the bunker, that interminable desert in which nothing changed. We woke and went through our routines so many times in succession that dreaming and waking could no longer distinguish night and day and all simply became time.

Bored sets in quickly, as I restlessly pace the rooms with increasing frustration. Lethargy follows, the feeling that time has frozen and you don’t even care, watching dust float in sunbeams, studying the cracks and invisible patterns of the ceiling, listening to the sound of your heart beat and blood as it moves through the body rushing past the ears. Finally, aimlessness. Wanting to do something, but with no direction, no purpose.

Fortunately, by the time my aimlessness is beginning to annoy me, Thomas arrives.

“What is up with you?” he asks. “You’re on edge.”

“Maggie took the day off.” Thomas smirks. “She might be quitting. Said she had stuff to think about.” Promptly Thomas’s grin fades into concern.

“Thomas, what do I do? I think I really fucked up.” I can’t bring myself to look into the crater of my destruction and acknowledge the true scope of my potential disaster. I could go to prison for life. Maggie’s qualifications as an expert are top-notch according to my attorney. With her there is at least a chance of turning my lack of alibi into a meaningful defense. Without her…well, I was explicitly warned my case is extremely difficult given the lenient evidence standards around bunker-based crimes.

“Alex…”

“I know.”

“Well, come on. You’ve got to win her over. Be less of an asshole.”

“Hey!”

“What does she like?” Thomas asks. “You’ve spent some time out socially. Missing my meals,” he adds.

“Alcohol?”

He face palms. “Dig deeper.”

“Ok, um. Whiskey? Tequila that one time she was in a really good mood. Top shelf stuff,” I add. “She doesn’t skimp on her booze.”

“Classy lady. You sure have a type.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Alright what else does she like?” Thomas asks, grin back in full force. “I’ll cook her up something extra nice tonight, but in the meantime, we need to figure out how you’re going to start making things up to her tomorrow.”

 

Maggie tells herself today is not for work, but she can’t seem to help it. Every attempt to catch up on emails and a million tiny other tasks inevitably leads to a thought on the Danvers case which must be recorded for potential follow-up. Maggie sighs. Figures Alex would wait until a critical juncture to drop a bombshell. Her patient is nothing if not an accomplished attention-seeker. Though her personality suggests this trait is a more recent development, a sophisticated means of acting out frustration with her current situation. Really the kind of behavior to be expected with an individual as intelligent as Alex.

_Damnit._

Maggie jots down the thought. This is all pointless if she intends to resign. She’s exhibiting classic symptoms of denial, but it feels good to indulge once in a while, pretend as if she doesn’t already know how this ends. Her mind was made up the second she saw Alex slumped on the floor of her bathroom and for the briefest instant thought… _I missed my chance_.

Maggie shrugs it aside. A high profile case, substantial paycheck, and opportunity to serve as starring expert witness. Sure, it’s a bit distasteful to boil it all down to ambition but it’s honest. And Maggie is nothing if not honest with herself. Whether her examination exonerates or condemns, this case has already made Maggie’s career. Surely that’s worth the occasional rough patch.

Truthfully Maggie isn’t sure why she’s still so bothered. Patients have called her names, used obscene language, and generally been unpleasant with her before. It’s a hazard of the trade, really. Alex’s attack felt so…personal. It’s this damn staying in the same house. It’s a bad idea. One Maggie never should have agreed to.

 _But it wasn’t until you moved in that Alex opened up_. Also true. Point, counterpoint. She has no rebuttal. Staying at chez Danvers then. At least for the time being. With a sigh Maggie opens the laptop again.

 

Case Notes of Dr. Margaret Sawyer

_As Alex approaches key topics regarding her time in the bunker and interactions with the deceased, her behavior grows more erratic. Recently she experienced a dissociative event that resulted in self-harm. It’s apparent this was not her first instance of self-harm, suggesting the dissociation may also be part of an ongoing pattern of behavior. Alex admitted to one prior episode that resulted in aggressive behavior, but did not mention any others. In spite of this, Alex does not appear to have the psyche of a violent person._

_The possibility remains that Alex may be an accomplished liar. However, she demonstrates no tells and her story thus far has been consistent with external resources. I believe Alex is telling the truth, at least insofar as she is aware of the truth. This raises the question of whether Alex may be harboring delusions so deeply seated that she herself is ignorant of reality; or that her dissociative state(s) may be more pervasive than anyone knows._

_A number of questions remain outstanding. In no particular order._

  1. _The discrepancy between the number of bodies recovered and number Alex claims were present in the bunker. Must review the manifest and names of the deceased. If nothing else, the individual not accounted for could be another potential alibi._
  2. _Alex’s history of blackouts and the incident in which she physically harmed someone. Medical records shall be requested for review, although it seems likely most episodes were not recorded._
  3. _Alex’s recollection of the events leading up to her discovery. TBD how far back her memory lapse extends and anything she may in fact recall that could…_



_Remove suspicion._ Maggie shakes her head. That’s clearly biased language. She has no reason to remove Alex from suspicion at this juncture. In fact, quite the opposite given Alex’s own admission of having hurt someone previously.

 

_…that could shed light on the events which transpired._

 

Better. Maggie wiggles her fingers over the keys. There’s another option she’d like to try if the memory lapses appear to present too much of a barrier. Something not exactly conventional, and thus perhaps something better left out of her official record. Maggie snaps the laptop closed.

Tomorrow she will return to work, the inevitable conclusion, her denial phase fully processed. With the additional time to reflect she feels oddly close to a breakthrough. Or at least pleased to note how much progress has been made since those first sessions where Alex ignored her entirely. There’s just one thing left to do.

“I’ve decided to stay on,” Maggie says, not even waiting for the attorney to finish his greeting.

“Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it.”

“But, I do have a request. Or rather, a few requests.”

“Certainly.”

“I recently experienced one of Alex’s memory lapses. I’d like to take a look at her medical records, see if she has ever brought this up or obtained a previous diagnosis.”

The line is quiet for several seconds. When the attorney begins to speak again he sounds oddly unsure of himself.

“Of course. When did this occur? Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie says. Not for the first time she wonders what Alex might have told the attorney under privilege that causes him to be so concerned. Maybe she should be concerned sharing a house with an accused murderer. The image of Alex bloodied and slumped on the floor comes to her suddenly, causing Maggie to shiver.

“Oh, and I’d like to review the list of the deceased. Were you aware someone is missing?” Of course he’s aware, Maggie thinks. But odd that no one thought to mention it to her, that she should find out by accident.

“I can get you the list. But if you’re looking for the missing person, it’s Kara Danvers,” he says.

Inexplicably Maggie’ heart beats a bit faster. “So there is someone else. Are you looking for her? Perhaps she knows something.”

“We’ve been looking,” he says, his voice calming. “But we don’t expect to find her.”

“Well, any information on her would be great too,” Maggie says, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She doesn’t know what she thinks Kara might know. But it feels important.

“I’ll have a car come by the house tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Maggie says.

“Great. Oh, and while I have you. What do you prefer? Whiskey or tequila?”

“Um, well... Whiskey typically. But there’s no alcohol allowed in the house. Court orders, you know.”

“Of course,” he replies. “I was just wondering for the next time you’re in town.” On the other end of the line Maggie hears the scratching as the attorney jots down her response.

“Have a lovely evening, Dr. Sawyer. Enjoy your dinner.” The sound of the line dropping is followed immediately by a gentle knock.

“Come in,” Maggie yells.

Slowly the door swings inward as Thomas peers around the edge. “I heard you were taking some personal time today, so I figured I would bring your dinner to you.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Maggie forgot all about lunch and her stomach growls loudly at the smell of a hot meal. Thomas smiles and backs out of the room.

Staring at the plate of food, Maggie should be pleased. She’s spent a day getting her head on straight, planning out a strategy, and now has one of her favorite meals hand-delivered. But something feels off. It hits Maggie then that this is the first dinner in two weeks she’s not sitting across from Alex.


	16. Superman

“Tell me about the bunker. I want to understand the relationships, any tension between people, and how you fit in.” Maggie shifts and gives me an expectant look. We’re back in the sunroom, our unofficially formal location for sessions. Her way of letting me know we’ve taken a step backwards.

“Well it was a lot like before honestly. At DEO. Except Hank was there. And Sam. And Kara.”

“It’s not sounding very similar.”

“I guess not.” This is proving more difficult to explain than I anticipated. “I mean it didn’t feel very different. At first anyway. I continued doing a lot of the same work I had been but over time that changed as we adapted to…well, we had to adapt.”

“How so?”

“The sixty of us had to cover the whole of our needs. So slowly people began to fill different roles, and those roles began to define them more than how they’d come in.”

“Explain.”

“Well I came in a researcher, but I quickly became something like the bunker physician. Winn took over managing all the technology. Kara worked with Hank on security, that’s how I started training with them, and also became something like the social coordinator or morale manager. People took shifts on the hydro-farm and cleaning the living quarters. Eventually we all took security shifts as well.”

“Why?”

“We heard stories, I don’t know if they were true, but stories about people breaking into bunkers. Hank seemed to believe them, so everyone received some amount of weapons training. I guess by a couple years in we looked more like a military unit than a research corporation. Which in retrospect was good when…”

I trail off. I can’t believe we’re finally here. I want nothing more than to stay silent, to go back to those first days where I made her wait, shivering in the chill air outside. But we’re past that now. If I stop she will leave. All will be lost. They will take me away, I will live the rest of my life behind the bars of a prison or a looney bin. I may even receive the death penalty. Be sentenced to fry in an electrified chair that only a true psychopath could have invented. 

Only a couple weeks ago that would have been ok, I wouldn’t have cared. But Maggie has managed to light something inside me that I thought dead. That infernal spark of hope that keeps us moving forward in the face of certain tragedy. I wasn’t supposed to have hope. Why did she have to screw this up?

“When what?”

“When it all happened,” I say. “When things started to get intense.”

“Why did they get intense?”

“I’m not sure. We’d been underground for a long time, past four years at this point. Four years with the same sixty people for company, and literally no escape. There were ups and downs. Food shortages, illness, personal drama, all the usual. Maybe it was the stress, but remember how I said Sam changed after she got sick?”

“I do.”

“Well that Sam started to come back. It was one thing after another. The hydro-farm suffered an outbreak. Some kind of mold and we lost a lot of food. Everyone was placed on rations, which of course means weakened immune systems, so naturally a few bugs began to go around. It wasn’t anything too bad, I’d dealt with much worse, but it brought Reign out.”

“Rain?” Maggie cocks her head to the side. “How could it rain in the bunker?”

“No, like kings and queens. I shall reign and so on. It’s what Sam called herself when she transformed.”

Maggie thinks for a second before a snort escapes. “Reign? That’s ridiculous.”

“Well it’s not like I choose it,” I respond. I feel my face flushing. “It’s the name she chose.” I’m not sure why I feel so defensive, but something about Maggie making fun of Sam’s alter ego raises my hackles.

“I’m sorry. It’s just a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But I guess that was the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sam was never one to come out and say what she wanted. She always helped others, was in the background supporting.”

“So this alternate manifestation…”

“Was what she never had. Control. Power. Being a leader.”

“And how did that work out?”

“Mixed results,” I say.

“Mixed? I’d say it worked out poorly for everyone.”

“That’s because I haven’t finished,” I retort. “It wasn’t her fault. And ironically, it saved us all. For a time.”

Maggie leans back, arms crossed. _Go on_. She doesn’t believe me, but all I can do is power ahead.

“Those stories Hank heard, they were true. I didn’t want to believe it, but someone entered the bunker. At first we thought it would be alright. But then we learned…outside the bunker he was going by a different name. He was different than I remembered.” I can tell I’m speaking too quickly, words tripping over each other as I tear at a loose hangnail, unable to catch Maggie’s eye.

“Someone you knew? Who was it?”

My vision blurs and I shove the painful lump in my throat down, burning shame into my chest. “He wasn’t dead. All those years I’d wondered about the tiny box, why they never said what happened. That’s how he knew where to find us. The DEO bunker had been around for decades. He’d probably run missions from there.”

I shake my head, not even fighting the tears falling from my eyes. It’s too much. His death once almost broke me, but twice? No wonder I stopped caring what would happen to me.

“He came in through a back door. Must have remembered some old override code.”

I can feel Maggie searching my face for the answer. _Please don’t make me say it_. She releases a slow breath.

“Your father?” Her brow furrows deeply. Skepticism or concern. Probably a mix of both.

“Yes. And no. He seemed completely normal, or that’s what I told myself. It was hard to be sure after twenty years. But then…he became like Sam. He called himself Superman.”

“Wait, Superman??” At first I think Maggie is making fun of me for another goofy on-the-nose moniker, but then I see her expression.

“You’ve heard of him?” I ask.

 

Of course, Maggie has heard of Superman. The juiced up human who broke into half a dozen sealed bunkers terrorizing the inhabitants, always leaving dead in his wake. Maggie vividly recalls the reports about him that came through the bunker radio. She even saw him once from afar, after returning to the surface.

_Superman._

The man who told the world he was beyond human, and unfortunately seemed to have the credentials to back at least some of that up. Super-strength, horrifying death ray vision, the ability to fly… He was nigh unstoppable. As an armchair diagnosis she would have called him a narcissist, but his pathology likely went even deeper. He was cruelly logical and self-serving. Anything that failed to promote his agenda, as he decided, was the enemy. At a time when the government bunkers had only just re-opened, his appearance on the surface was disastrous, critically setting back the re-establishment of society. His disappearance a year later had been hailed as a miracle, but everyone remained wary of Superman’s return. Rumor had it that when Superman wasn’t around he was masquerading as an ordinary human, but his identity was never discovered. Apparently this is why.

“You’re telling me your father is Superman?” The revelation has gone from being a potentially good thing to terrible. Her accused patient has a father known for being a ruthless killer. A terror. Menace to society. If anyone knew he was still out there it would incite panic…

“Yes,” Alex says. “And Reign killed him.”

“What??”

“We survived. Thanks to Reign.”

Maggie fights the strong urge to pinch herself.

 “So I think you have to admit, Reign did a pretty decent job,” Alex says. That defensiveness she wears whenever Reign comes up in conversation is back. Still harboring feelings for Sam, no doubt.

“Talk me through what happened,” Maggie says, biting back a million other questions.

 

It was a rough time, as I mentioned, but we’d been through worse. Looking back it’s hard knowing that government bunkers were clearing out around that same time. We hadn’t yet got word about the surface. Turned out we never would. I was in the lab running some tests on blood samples, trying to discern if the latest bug was something I could speed up in any way. Hank entered the lab with a strange look on his face.

“Alex,” he said. “Someone wants to see you.” I immediately felt uncertain. At this point people knew to drop by if they were feeling ill. I couldn’t imagine who would require an escort from Hank. Hank was a big guy, so I didn’t see him right away. But the dark mop of hair, the even darker, piercing eyes, thick forearms, and above all that boisterous smile… I think I dropped the vial I was holding.

For years I’d seen my father in my dreams or ducking just out of sight in the woods or crowds. At first, I always chased, but eventually I came to believe that everyone else was right, that these were just tricks of the mind. A coping mechanism working overtime. But there he was, in the flesh, smelling of earth and sweat. Solid. Real. Alive.

My father and I had always been close. Much closer than I ever was with my mother. I think he got me in a way no one else did. When I saw him, it was like seeing myself in a mirror for the first time in decades. I understood who I was again, I knew my place in the world. I felt happy. Not a cheesy happy-in-the moment thing either, but a fundamental satisfaction with life. The gap in my chest filled again.

“Alex,” he said, “what a beautiful woman you’ve become.” I must have pushed Hank aside, but truthfully, I only remember my father and I being in the room at this point.

“I waited for you,” I said. “I never stopped looking.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“How did you find us?” I asked. I’m not sure why I didn’t think to ask how he survived on the dead surface. His appearance was all very sudden and confusing. In retrospect I should have known something was wrong. Maybe then, I could have prevented it.

“It wasn’t easy,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve been looking for a while. But I needed to find you and Kara. Kara is here with you, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I’d like to see her.”

I gave him the tour as we walked, introduced him to the team. Most people were too young to have worked with him, but everyone was welcoming, if a bit curious. Kara nearly knocked him to the ground with her forceful embrace.

“Still the strongest around I see,” he said with a grin.

“You bet,” Kara said.

“Spar with your old man later? Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Yeah right. You’re on.”

I had to get back to the lab so I didn’t see my father again until the dinner bell. Hank watched him closely, but only shook his head when I asked if there was a problem. I figured maybe he was just trying to stay out of the way since he was basically the father figure for all of us there.

Jeremiah got to work the next day, taking shifts like everyone else. The extra set of hands were welcome and he seemed to know what he was doing.

Then there was an incident in the training room. He was sparring with Kara and struck her. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. Kara at this point fought as well as Hank, so it was remarkable that he managed to get a hit in, even more remarkable that the hit knocked her across the room. When I patched Kara up in the medbay she didn’t have much to say about it, just got really quiet. I could tell she wanted to say something so I shut the door and closed the blinds.

“It was him,” she said very quietly.

“What was him?”

When she looked back at me there were tears in her eyes. “It’s how I knew my blood would heal Sam. He’d done it before. I saw how it made him stronger but also…different. I saw it heal him.”

“Our father took your blood?” I repeated.

“He said the DEO required it. A secondary test, to see how well the modification could persist.” Her hands shook. “He kept going though. Said he needed more and more. Insisted he could be stronger. I finally told someone.”

“Mom?”

Kara nodded. “She told me not to worry. That she would see it was dealt with. I’ve never seen her so angry.”

“And then he disappeared.”

“Yes.” Kara’s expression was full of fear. “I knew it would hurt you Alex, and I’m sorry. But I didn’t know what to do. He was…”

“He was hurting you,” I interrupted. “He had to be stopped.” I remember it hurt to breathe in that moment, knowing Kara had held this in, had kept this awful secret from me for so long. “I wish you’d told me,” I said finally. “I wish I hadn’t made you afraid to tell me the truth.”

Kara hugged me so tightly I thought my ribs might break. That’s when I realized the danger of our current situation. Jeremiah wasn’t here to reconnect with us. If he’d been alive, he could have found us at any point after my mother’s death. He was here for one reason: to drain Kara of her life force and make himself even stronger.

“We have to tell Hank,” I said.

“I think he already knows.”

“Then we have to hide you. We can’t let him–”

A huge crash from the hallway stopped us short. The sound of yelling followed by another crash. The door to the medbay shattered and our father stood there, no longer our father but something else.

“Hand her over, Alex,” he said in a deep voice. “There’s no need for you to get hurt.”

I pushed Kara behind me. A stupid move seeing as between the three of us I was easily the weakest, but I knew in that moment I would rather die than put my sister at risk. I probably would have died, right then, but for Reign. Out of nowhere she appeared, blocking the way between my father and us.

“They are under my protection now,” she said. “Be gone or perish.”

I pulled Kara behind the desk, shielding her strong body with my relatively weak one. I saw nothing of the fight, only heard the crunching of bone on bone, cracking walls, and inhuman howls. When the noise ceased I raised my head over the edge of the desk. Reign crouched on the floor and at her feet lay the prone figure of the man I once thought of as my father.

As angry as I’d been, as much as I could never forgive knowing he hurt Kara, one can’t simply ignore the lifeless body of a parent. I felt every bit of his loss anew, perhaps even more so in seeing his body bereft of soul and feeling his limbs grow stiff and cold. Reign towered over me, saw into my heart and mind, and issued her judgement.

“You can’t be trusted, Alex. You protected Kara, but what about the rest of us? What if you decide vengeance is needed for what’s been done?”

“I don’t understand,” I said, holding the hand of my dead father, returned to me so briefly but in fact not returned at all. The mirror he’d held up, the one that showed me who I was lay shattered, never to be pieced together again. The man I’d idolized revealed in death to be a killer, a power-hungry narcissist.

“We’re putting you in the brig,” Reign said. “Until the day we leave this place, you shall remain there. Alone.”


	17. In a Handbasket

Maggie can’t sleep. In her mind she sees Alex, but it’s not Alex, it’s the darker, taller one, rising far above.

_Submit_.

It would be so easy. She wants to give in, wants to let herself come into this creature’s thrall. Fingers stroke her cheek and it takes everything Maggie has to keep herself from closing her eyes, from giving in.

_Submit_.

“Alex?” Maggie almost doesn’t recognize her own voice, so breathy. “Why are you like this?”

_Not Alex_ , the voice in her head retorts, the voice of the dark warped figure of Alex. _You shall submit, and I shall Reign_.

“No,” says Maggie. “You’re Alex.”

The figure shimmers and through the cracks in the façade Alex can just be seen.

“You don’t need to hide,” Maggie says, hands stroking the soft, pale skin. “Just be Alex.”

_Do you submit?_

Something won’t let go. She wants to but can’t. Not yet. There is more to do. There is a wound so deep it can’t be seen. So deep she doesn’t realize the small ways it changes everything without her knowing it; leading her to believe it is merely the way things are. Pain encased in thick, protective scar tissue that needs to be excavated, hidden but alive.

She can’t submit. Can’t face what’s been hidden away. Not now. There’s still more work to do.

“No,” Maggie says. “I do not submit.”

She wakes with a start, sheets damp with sweat. She lays back down breathing slowly. Another weird dream to add to her growing collection.

At least Alex has finally filled her in on the character haunting the edges of her subconscious. Reign, Sam’s alternate form, Alex’s simultaneous savior and terrorizer. The dark one that Maggie imagines as a shadowed version her patient.

Maggie rolls over, away from the mussed part of the sheets. Alex’s narrative is fantastical, sure, but is it false, she wonders. Frustratingly it only raises more questions for Maggie. If Superman were in the bunker, why do only the names from the manifest appear on the list of the deceased? Where did his body go? How did Alex escape the brig to be found wandering the halls alone? And still, who is to blame for the fifty-plus deaths of the bunker residents?

She needs to stop thinking about this. No wonder she keeps dreaming of ghosts. With a huff, Maggie turns again, burying her head in the pillow. _Just sleep_ , she thinks. _Normal, dreamless sleep_.

 

Bags line the bottoms of Maggie’s eyes and the usually calm doctor seems…off. I hope she’s not thinking of quitting again. I know my story is difficult to believe.

“You seem tired,” I say.

“I’m not.” The words come out a bit too sharply, betraying the truth of the observation. Maggie seems to realize it and brushes her hair back with a sigh. “I’ve been having odd dreams,” she says. “Do you dream much?”

“Everyone dreams,” I respond.

“Yes, but do you remember your dreams?”

“Usually.” My vision zooms in on a piece of carpet slowly unraveling in the corner.

“What do you dream about?”

This conversation has taken a most unwelcome turn. I try to laugh but even I can tell I sound uncomfortable.  

“You’re the shrink so I don’t need to tell you that human dreams tend to coalesce around certain violent, aggressive, and sexual themes.”

“Ok.”

Damnit. She’s doing that awful thing where she keeps agreeing with me, letting the silence stretch and fill the space between us until I’m compelled to break. It didn’t use to be hard to wait her out but she knows she has the upper hand now. I’ve only got one trick that still throws her.  

“If you’re hoping for sex dreams, doctor, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” I tease.

“So they tend to be violent.” It’s a statement. A signal that she won’t let me distract her with snark or teasing. But she does blink a few extra times as she retorts.

“You could say that.”

“Unpleasant?”

“Sometimes. What about your dreams?” I ask.

She sighs. Frustration, but not directed at me. “They’re about work,” she says. I imagine report deadlines and animated textbooks chasing her around. Or maybe other work problems, unrelated to me. Thomas is right, I need to be less of an asshole, recognize that Maggie has a life outside of trying to help me with bunker memories.

Maggie doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask. Neither of us really wants to discuss our internal lives. I clear my throat to signal the change in topic.

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” I say. “I know I can be…difficult.”

“It’s not your job to be easy,” Maggie says.

“Um, well, I had Thomas put some stuff together.” Her even response has me flustered. Was that a rejection? Every spare moment I’ve had for the past two days has been planning this. My hands move of their own accord, brushing back my hair and rubbing my neck, unable to stay still.

“I thought maybe we could go for a walk, and, uh, have a picnic, change of scene.” It suddenly sounds very stupid. For a moment Maggie stares at me blankly.

“That actually sounds amazing,” she says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Yesterday was a pretty heavy session. We covered a lot of ground. I think we can take it a bit easier today. Getting out into nature is just the thing.”

“Great.” I swallow my disappointment. It stings a bit how she assumes this is related to our session as opposed to hanging out. _She still doesn’t trust you_. Smart lady.

I head up to my room to change into real clothes. The whiskey Thomas brought over is tucked into the back of my closet. Around the neck he appended a note that reads: _don’t be a douche and she’ll forgive you_. I crumple it up on my way out. Yeah, right.

Maggie watches out of the side of her vision as I pop the monitor off my ankle. I have a feeling it’s not setting the best tone for our outing. I tug my jeans down and place the monitor in the desk drawer.

“Ready?” I ask, without looking.

I carry the basket Thomas readied while Maggie walks behind with the blanket slung over one shoulder. Summer has finally obtained lasting dominance over the uneven spring. Warm sunlight dapples through the trees, bright green leaves rustle with all the latest chatter. The day is happy and I can’t help but feel my spirits lift, even as a small cloud follows overhead. I need to focus on the true purpose here: to make Maggie happy. This trip isn’t about making myself feel better.

In the clearing Maggie lays out the blanket and I take stock of what Thomas has packed. Cold salmon sandwiches, coleslaw, red potato salad with chives, and lemon bars. Then the illicit whiskey I’ve stashed underneath. Maggie’s eyes go wide.

“Alex! You could get in serious trouble for that!”

“Technically it’s not allowed in the house,” I correct. “As long as we finish the bottle out here, I haven’t broken that rule. But in case we didn’t I was going to give any leftovers to you.” Maggie eyes the label from a distance.

“And since you’ve already let me wander off the grounds without my monitor…” I shrug and Maggie’s shoulders sag forward. I hope I haven’t pushed my luck too far. Fortunately, when she raises her head she’s got a small, wicked grin.

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have a little,” she says.

 

The food is delicious and the whiskey among the smoothest Maggie has ever drunk. A pleasant, dull burn fills her belly as she reclines on the blanket, marveling at how Alex is somehow still eating.

“You should really grab a lemon bar before I finish them all,” Alex warns.

“I’m good here.”

Alex shrugs then seems to think better of it. She picks up a lemon bar and crawls to Maggie’s side of the blanket.

“Open up,” she says with a grin.

“Seriously, I’m stuffed,” Maggie says waving off the dessert. A bit of powered sugar falls onto her nose.

“Ok, stuffed,” Alex says. “You’re going to have at least one or Thomas will never forgive me.”

“Oh, so it’s Thomas you’re worried about?”

“And you! I want you to enjoy yourself!”

“And that includes force feeding me until I vomit?”

Alex sighs with faux resignation. “If that’s the way it has to be,” she says. The lemon bar floats from side to side, slowly getting closer until it’s right against Maggie’s lips. Laughing she opens her mouth and takes a bite.

“Good, right?” Alex asks.

“Delicious.”

“Excellent, because the lemon plane in coming in again,” Alex says. “I knew I could get you to try it.”

_I knew I could get you to submit_.

Maggie starts away from the hand and the dessert goes tumbling through the grass. Her chest heaves and a cold sweat begins to bead along her brow. Alex’s now-empty hand remains outstretched, an expression of confused hurt on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie says, scrambling to sit up. “I thought I saw something.” The racing of her heart refuses to abate and she might be suffocating in this open air.

“It’s fine,” Alex says, brushing her fingers against the grass. “I didn’t actually want to make you sick.”

Maggie laughs unevenly. “Just stress,” she says, mostly for her own benefit. “I’m jumping at shadows.”

“I can help you relax. I give great massages.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate…”

“Head massage,” Alex clarifies. “I promise my head massages are legendary.” She moves to an adjacent stump, gesturing for Maggie to sit at the base. It would be rude to refuse.

Maggie sits stiffly upright between Alex’s legs, avoiding leaning into her warm thighs. Behind her, Alex cracks her knuckles in preparation.

Slowly fingers weave their way into her hair, diving through the thick curls until short nails brush against her scalp. It’s a sensation unlike any Maggie has ever felt, the hair moving on her head, the pressure that rolls in waves, and the deeply satisfying scratching of rarely-touched skin. She feels her body relaxing, persist and unwelcome thoughts letting go. Alex indeed knows how to give an excellent head massage, Maggie has to admit. Her head bobs gently against the pressure and a small sigh escapes her lips. The embarrassment is fleeting as Alex doesn’t seem to notice, continuing her ministrations without pause. Maggie’s head tilts as Alex works her hands around to the sides and front of the head.

Alex breathes heavily, focusing on the small sounds that occasionally pass Maggie’s lips, focusing her attention where Maggie seems to enjoy her touch most. Maggie’s head lolls forward, then tips back, revealing her closed eyes and parted mouth. Alex whisks her hands around Maggie’s ears, tugging gently on her earlobes, earning another low moan.

As the moan registers, Maggie realizes she’s fully reclined against Alex. For as long as they’ve been under the same roof, Maggie has never been this close to her, close enough to smell her body odor. Vaguely like cured meats. _Ew, gross_. No, that’s not right. Pepper, though. A slightly spicy peppery musk that makes the back of Maggie’s nose tingle as though she might sneeze. Pepper and well-worn leather. And citrus, likely from the recently consumed lemon bars. It’s not an unpleasant aroma.

The massage continues for another minute before the hands disappear, leaving Maggie feeling strangely empty.

 

“How was that?” I ask.

“It was nice.” Unlike her earlier pleasantries she seems to really mean it, remaining seated with her head tipped slightly back for several second before opening her eyes. When she smiles it’s that golden smile of hers, the one with the dimple and tilted head, dark curls framing her face just so.

Has she always been this beautiful? I recall thinking she was generically attractive, but not the type to make me stop and stare. And yet, that’s exactly what I find myself doing now. Thankfully Maggie seems to be pretty blissed out from massage endorphins or this would get weird fast. The bit of powdered sugar on her nose draws attention to the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks.

“Is there something wrong?” Maggie asks. Crap, I’ve been caught.

“Just, um.” I gesture to her nose. “An escapee from the lemon plane.” She blushes as she bats at her nose, looking like a cat with an itch. I fight the urge to tackle her while she’s distracted, wrestle to her back and lick the sweetness from her skin.

_What the freaking hell, Danvers?!_

Must be the damn talk about sex dreams earlier. It’s got me wound up and horny. Plus, the whole patient-therapist thing. That’s a thing, right? How the patient is supposed to fall in love with their therapist. It’s not real love of course, merely a closeness born of that feeling of trust, of sharing. All one-sided though. Maggie – Dr. Sawyer – couldn’t be expected to feel the same. Doesn’t feel the same.

Maggie’s eyes are closed again as she breaths in tandem with the rustling branches overhead. I need a distraction before she realizes I’m staring again. And a reminder that Maggie is unavailable in the sense of being straight.

“The only thing that would make today better is to whoop you in pool,” I say.

Maggie’s head snaps around. I can tell she’s feeling good from the booze because she doesn’t even try to hide her ridiculously competitive nature. “Oh, you’re on.”

The bar is decently full, so I have a few options as I size up the male offerings. I don’t know Maggie’s type but at least one guy has a generic kind of appeal and decent-looking body. I nudge Maggie, inclining my head in his direction.

“He’s cute. I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing.” Maggie flushes. The pinkness rises through her neck and into her cheeks, and that lopsided dimple deepens in her cheek, always making me think of an ice cream scooper. Immediately I imagine Maggie laying on her back as I lick a dab of ice cream from that dimple, my mouth moving from her cheek to tease her ear with my cold tongue while she giggles.

Well, shit. That backfired. I clear my throat in what I hope is a casual manner.

 “You should ask him for his number. After all, no one is stopping you from having a life.”

Maggie laughs in that uncomfortable way that makes my skin tingle, that makes me wonder if I wasn’t right about her the first time. 

“That really wouldn’t be appropriate,” she says. She misses what should have been an easy corner shot.

“You like that word,” I say.

“What word?”

“Appropriate. If I were your therapist I’d say you use it to protect yourself from experiencing things.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing the tables are turned then.”

“Come on,” I groan. “If I can’t date at least let me live vicariously through you.”

“I’m not really the dating sort,” Maggie mumbles.

“Well who says you need to date the guy? A little fun is all I ask.”

Maggie blushes even more furiously, her dimple deepening. If I could kiss her I’d want to kiss right there, against the adorable indentation of her cheek.

“I could go get his number,” I offer. More than anything I need Maggie to get laid so I can stop these thoughts. With someone else. Anyone else.

“I’m not sure he’s my type,” Maggie says.

“What is your type?”

“Um…” Maggie’s eyes whisk around the room. “I…I don’t know. I’m not very good at relationships.” I’m afraid I’ve pushed her discomfort too far.  

“Sorry,” I say. “We can just play.” I circle around the table for my turn. It’s a clean shot. Maybe I will win a game today. If I can focus.

The next shot places me right in front of Maggie. I lean over the table a bit further than necessary while I line up. I wonder if she’s watching me. The cue ball goes wide from my target, scratching as it rolls into the pocket. Apparently I can’t flirt and play pool at the same time. Maggie’s gaze is studiously averted when I turn around.

I don’t know what’s come over me, but want her attention. Crave it. I want her to smile, to laugh, to lean in close enough that her curls brush against my skin. I shove everything I’m feeling down deep.

“Your ball,” I say.


	18. The Fog

Nothing beats waking up naturally. The slow rise of sleep from the eyes, the fading of dreams, gentle adjustment to morning’s dim light. For several minutes Maggie allows herself the luxury of lying awake without thought or worry of the day to come. But all too soon the lists creep in, and with a sigh she tosses the covers aside.

One of the cleaning staff placed the large package just inside her bedroom door. From the weight and attorney’s office on the shipping label she already knows what it contains. Best to do this first thing, before seeing Alex and dealing with the distractions of the day.

Inside the files are neatly organized into folders. Alex’s medical records on top, then morgue summaries occupying the lower three-quarters. Maggie flips forward to ten years ago. Regular check-ups, nothing out of place. No recorded blackouts or unusual injuries from Alex’s story or from her prior skim of the records. She huffs with frustration. She’s missing something. Some critical connection or piece. It just doesn’t quite add up.

Alex is lingering in the kitchen by the time Maggie finally heads down to grab some toast. Alex jumps off the stool and fairly slams the waiting bread into the toaster.

“I-wanted-to-get-you-breakfast,” she says in a rush, spilling some coffee over the side of a mug.

“I think I can handle the toaster,” Maggie says. “I only got bread stuck in it the one time.”

Alex laughs in a strange high-pitched tone.

“Alex, are you feeling ok?”

“Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You seem very…energized today.” Maggie watches as Alex butters the toast. Her patient spins and presents her with the plate and cup of coffee.

“Why the special treatment?” Maggie asks. “Is this about this weekend?”

“What happens this weekend?”

“The conference. But don’t worry. I’ve asked Thomas to stay at the house in my place.”

“Conference?”

As Maggie bites into the crunchy bread she realizes she never mentioned this to Alex. It shouldn’t have been issue. When she signed up Alex wasn’t her patient, hadn’t even been found. Even after she took her on, Maggie was still living on her own in National City. A weekend away would have gone unnoticed. The crisp edges of the toast hurt as Maggie swallows a bit too quickly.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I forgot to mention it.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have to?”

“I’ve been asked to speak, so yes, I have to.” Alex grumbles into her shirt. “It’s just for two days,” Maggie says. “You won’t even notice.”

“I’ll notice. I’m used to you.” Maggie has to bite back a smile. It’s nice to feel wanted.

Whatever frantic energy that lead to the toast ambush has appeared to dissipate. Alex slouches back on her stool with a small frown. Despite the glitch in forgetting to mention it to Alex, the conference is good timing, Maggie thinks. Alex is nearly finished with her story and the break will give Maggie a couple days to process before they return to the work of filling in the gaps. Plus the chance to hear the latest might offer some new strategies.

“What are you talking about?” Alex asks after a moment. “Me? Your post-traumatic stuff?”

“I would never talk about our work together without your consent,” Maggie says. “I’m speaking about identity.”

“Identity?”

“Yes. The ways in which we each craft our own identity. How events can shape that concept of identity, fracturing it even, leaving people with distinct, even conflicting identities at times.” Maggie pauses. She should probably stop, this is almost certainly boring Alex.

“It’s something I observed in the bunker. A fascinating artifact of the Dark Years that has left an indelible mark on the current generations.”

“Post-traumatic stress for everyone?”

“Not exactly. Trauma is a retrospective term. I’m discussing a broader phenomenon,” Maggie says. She can feel her voice changing from conversational to lecture. The corner of Alex’s mouth twitches upwards as she leans forward. It’s all the encouragement Maggie needs.

“One can’t call the Dark Years trauma for everyone. Rather it’s what I would term a dramatic event, one that creates upheaval and change and with it the evolution of identity. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Not everyone responds poorly to the types of changes a dramatic event creates, even if it is intensely stressful and not something you want to relive. Alternatively, some people experience trauma through the changes of dramatic life events that are commonplace. Trauma happens when the individual is unable to meld their existing identity with the event in a coherent manner. The event then lingers. In a sense their identity is put on pause, unable to move forward.”

“Is that what you think happened to me?”

Maggie eyes her patient, curious, but a hint of something darker beneath the surface of the question.

“I’m not sure I should be discussing diagnoses with you,” Maggie says as gently as possible. “Plus, I haven’t completed my analysis.” She regrets the choice of word almost immediately. It’s so cold and detached. Alex looks away, picking at a loose hangnail that she will definitely rip off and make bleed.

“What did you study before the Dark Years?”

“The same thing.”

“How could you study the impact of the Dark Years before it happened?”

“Well I focused on other dramatic events. Military service, local disasters, that sort of thing.” The hangnail tears and Maggie grimaces reflexively as Alex sucks on the now-bloody finger.

“Why do you think you hurt yourself?” Maggie asks.

“Because it’s real. When I see this,” Alex says, holding her pointer finger aloft, “I know I’m alive.”

“Do you worry you’re not?”

“I worry I forget. That I’m going through the motions, becoming complacent. That it will all end and when I look back I’ll think, ‘why didn’t I…’” Alex chuckles at the table. “I suppose that makes my identity a doer.”

“Among other things.”

Alex smirks, her eyes scanning Maggie’s face. Maggie feels suddenly exposed, as if case notes were tattooed on her forehead for her patient to read.

“I think that’s enough chit chat,” Maggie says. “Since we’ve both eaten, shall we begin our session?” She begins to rise.

“Can we sit outside?” Alex asks. “Like we used to?” She looks so earnest, so much like a child seeking approval that the voice in Maggie’s head, the one that wants to say it wouldn’t be _appropriate_ – that damn word again – quiets.

Seated outside near the dying garden, Alex tips her head back in the sun, exposing the pale skin of her neck. Maggie sits in the dappled light nearby, taking advantage of the coolness offered by the shade.

“So after your father’s death, Reign threatened to place you in the brig,” Maggie says. “Did that happen?”

Alex sighs as if she’d been hoping the summer air would help her avoid the question, the inevitable conclusion.

“Yes,” she says.

“Tell me about that. What happened next?”

 

I don’t know how long I held my father’s hand. Long enough for the warmth to fade and the knuckles to become stiff. Eventually Kara pulled my hand away. Reign stood guard over us the entire time.

“He’s gone, Alex,” Kara said. “I need you.”

Those words snapped me from my stupor. I may have failed my father. I let him become his worst impulses. But I still had Kara. I could still protect her. Reign gave us one embrace. She had waited so long I wondered if I’d imagined her words. Maybe she didn’t mean to put me in the brig. But once we parted I felt her inhuman strength grasp my elbow. It was pointless to resist. In her Reign form, she could throw me across a room with one hand. She could literally run circles around me. There was no escape. I didn’t resist as she walked me to the cell and sealed me in.

Time disappeared there. The lights were always on and since someone on security shift came by regularly, I never knew whether it was morning, afternoon, or the middle of the night. I had no distraction from my misery and soon tired from raging against the bars. I curled up on the bunk, facing away from my cage, and tried to sleep. Six security shifts came and went before Hank brought me something to drink. Sleep came easier after that and whenever I woke I found another paper cup filled with liquid oblivion. 

I began to hear arguments in between my endless naps. Too far away and distorted to hear, but unusual for their occurrence in a bunker that had been run with military efficiency for nearly five years. In my haze I almost didn’t recognize Kara’s voice. It wasn’t until the third or fourth time one of these shouting matches woke me that it registered. This argument sounded closer. I still couldn’t make out words, just the odd phrase every now and then.

From what I could tell of the tone, the others in the bunker were afraid. Probably of me. Panic was building and they wanted some assurance, something to make sure they would remain safe. Let them come, I thought. Death held no fear for me then. Years of going through the motions will do that to a person.

But as the argument persisted I realized this was bigger than me. They knew about Kara. This kind of paranoia never ends with just one. It’s an infection that feeds off its victories, growing ever more powerful and self-righteous. More dangerous. Kara was fighting it, but from the sound of the arguments, more people were defecting to fear by the day. I might only have a few days remaining and then the mob would turn their attention on the one who was different, the one who defended me. They would go after Kara next.

I had to be there for her. I needed to clear my head. That’s when Hank came by, frowning when he saw me sitting up.

“What’s happening?” I asked. My tongue felt sticky in my mouth but I think I got the words out.

“Nothing,” he said. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Is Kara ok?” I asked. “I need to make sure Kara is ok.”

“You need to stay put,” he said. “For your own safety.”

“I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything! I would never try to hurt anyone! What’s going on out there?”

The urgency in his tone indicated I was right to be concerned. Adrenaline overcame whatever lingering sedative still pulsed through my blood. I felt wide awake, anxious, and despite the safety of being behind bars, frightened. I realized I’d never seen Hank like this. So short with me, not answering questions, clearly hiding something. I wanted to ask him what it was, to tell him that I trusted him, that nothing could shatter my faith, but everything happened too quickly.

A shower of sparks fell from the light in the hallway. I heard a crash and yells, not of people arguing but screams of genuine fear. There was a roar and more sparks. The lights flickered and went down. For half a second the bunker was pitch black and instinctively everyone fell silent. Then the emergency lights kicked on, bathing everything in a sickly red glow.

Hank reached through the bars, grabbing my shoulder hard. His eyes were wide and his pupils kept darting over his shoulder.

“Stay here,” he said before vanishing into the dark.

I didn’t understand until I leaned against the bars and they gave. With the power failure, the electric lock no longer held the door in place. Cries and crashes continued from the hall, the sound of fighting, several gunshots and more screams. In the dim redness once-familiar objects were transformed into sharp-edged shadows, and the faces of people I knew became strangers.

I remember squeezing my hands to my head, thinking _this can’t be happening_ , that it was all a dream. It had to be a dream. The more I think about, the more convinced I am that it must have been a dream, for I know the brig had a back-up lock, something that should have triggered when the power went out. There is no way the door would have opened. The sounds must have penetrated my consciousness and created a parallel nightmare.  I saw guns raised, pointed directly at me. They were no longer my bunker-mates though but faceless, shapeless humanoids.  

“Ready…aim…fire.”

I heard the words and then it seemed time stopped. The bullets never came and the threatening shadow-men vanished into puffs of fog that expanded and thickened until the entire bunker seemed filled with the dense, silvery liquid that helped me sleep. The dull grey overtook my vision. The last thing I saw through the fog was Kara, reaching for me.

I don’t know if I slept or if I was already asleep. I only know that when I woke I felt empty, my brain as still as a graveyard.

Kara lay in the bed next to mine, burning with a fever. I remember cradling her head, pressing a wet rag against her heated temple. I saw the bodies in the hallway, even had to push one aside to gain access to the medical supply closet, but it all felt so surreal that nothing registered. All that mattered was helping Kara. That was the only real thing.

Kara tossed and turned but seemed to still when I sang to her. So I sang to her, the same half a dozen lullabies I knew over and over. I remember feeling strangely unconcerned about anything else. I was waiting. A voice in my head told me that I only needed to wait and they would find me. That when they found me this strange trip would end and I could wake up again. And so I sang to my sister and held her close and sure enough they came.

I heard the whirring as they broke through the seal and I wasn’t worried, because this was how it was supposed to be. Kara’s fever had cooled although she remained pale. She smiled when I told her we’d be out soon.

 

Tears fill Alex’s eyes. Her throat bobs uncertainly.

“I should have stayed with her,” she says. “But they took so long. I snuck down the hall and watched them. They were like creatures from another planet. They turned on me so quickly. I just reacted. It was like waking up in the middle of a car crash. The stench of death, which must have been there for days, suddenly filled my nose. Those bloodstains that hours ago were so easy to ignore seemed lit up in neon.”

Alex pauses, breathing hard.

“I swear on everything I am, that is the truth,” Alex says. “I don’t know what happened in that bunker. I don’t know how everyone died.” She looks up into Maggie’s face.

“But I do know that I would have sooner killed everyone in there than have let any harm come to my sister. And if that means I have to go down for murder. Then so be it.”


	19. Missing

The figure clothed in shadows rises impossibly high. Despite a premonition that this would happen again, Maggie still can’t suppress the tremor that moves through her body.

“Who are you?”

_I am Reign_.

As expected, Maggie thinks. This dark Alex is her mind’s way of imagining Reign, of trying to piece together the more fantastical elements of Alex’s story.

“What do you want?”

Reign doesn’t need to speak for Maggie to hear the command clearly.

_Submit_.

No. She won’t. Stubbornness, fear, all the rest. But why not, she wonders. This image that appears so often, maybe this is the missing piece. Perhaps the dark, elongated Alex the speaks with Reign’s voice has a message from her subconscious, can point out the gap, can lead her to the truth. It’s only a dream after all.

“Alright,” Maggie says. “I submit.”

“Prove it.” This time Reign opens her mouth, speaking the words directly instead of echoing in Maggie’s mind. It makes her seem more real, more solid, and somehow more terrifying.

“I…uh. I submit,” Maggie repeats. Really, shouldn’t that be enough?

“No,” says Reign. “You hide from yourself Maggie Sawyer. You refuse to acknowledge the truth.”

“What am I missing? Please. I need to know.” She’s begging. Desperate.

The shadowed mouth smirks, reveling in her superiority as she steps closer, towering over Maggie. “It’s not for me to say. To know the ending, you must understand the beginning.” Reign tilts her head. “Where did you come from Maggie Sawyer? Why are you here?”

“I came from beneath the ground, just like you. I’m here because –”

Maggie’s mouth opens but the only sound it emits is a high-pitched gasping noise. The room is dark, her bedroom door slightly ajar, soft green shining through the opening from the hallway night light. A creak from the hallway makes her jump. Heart pounding, Maggie hops out of bed, peering through the crack. Only the ticking of the first floor grandfather clock can be heard. She must have not closed the door completely earlier. A draft probably blew it open.

Despite her best attempts, Maggie can’t get back to sleep, Reign’s taunts circling around, poking and prodding. _Why are you here Maggie Sawyer?_ And, _to know the ending you must understand the beginning_. Perhaps the second one contains a hint. But the beginning of what? Maggie tosses again. The beginning for Alex, for Reign…or maybe the beginning of the Dark Years. They’ve been through it all.

_Think Sawyer_.

Alex has covered every part of her story that she can remember. But that’s the rub, isn’t it? Every part she can remember. Notably the end contains a significant gap. But Reign told her to focus on the beginning, not the end. Maggie huffs with frustration. Once again, she’s missing something.

 

“How are you feeling today, Alex?” Maggie gazes at me with that head tilt she adopts when trying to convey sympathy. My insides melt with embarrassment. How cliché to be falling for my therapist.

“I suppose today you’ll want me to repeat my story,” I say, a bit more bitterly than intended.

“No,” Maggie replies. “I believe you. I don’t think the truth lies in forcing you to relive what is probably one of the worst experiences of your life over and over.”

God damnit. How does she do that so effortlessly?

“Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t think she hears, for she only stares into the middle distance, eyes unfocused. A single curl separates from the others, forming a dark wavy line that cuts right through the valley of her cheek.

“Where did it start?” Maggie asks. She turns to me suddenly and I realize I’ve been staring.

“Um. What? What did what start?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie says with a sigh. “All of it. If you could go back in time and change something, anything, that would have resulted in us not being here today…No therapy, no deaths, none of it. When would you go to make that change?”

“That’s a weird question.”

“Humor me.”

“I…uh. DEO I guess.”

“Explain.”

“Well if I’d never stared working for DEO I wouldn’t have ended up in the bunker, would I? Kara wouldn’t have been in danger.” My mind whirs, spinning backwards through causalities, actions and reactions. It must show for Maggie frowns.

“And…” she prompts.

“Well, without DEO Kara wouldn’t have been… Kara. Not the way I knew her at least. And my father would have stayed out of it. Never entered the bunker all Superman-y.”

It’s impossible. Everything loops back and the past is indistinguishable from the present. Maybe in some completely separate parallel universe things could have been different but here…

“There is no start,” I conclude. “No start and no ending. Maye it’s just how it had to be. Maybe I should stop fighting it.”

Maggie goes silent, calming all micromovements until she is perfectly still.

“Is that what you want, Alex?”

A wave of exhaustion washes over me. I am so tired. It’s been such a long time. My heavy lids close and the darkness is peaceful, warm. I could just float away.

Cool fingers brush against my cheek, grounding me. They slide over my ear and into hair, scratching against the scalp and holding the base of my skull. Maggie breathes deeply, commanding me to mirror her rhythm. When I open my eyes, her face is less than a foot away from my own.

“I’m not giving up on you, Alex. We’re going to figure out what happened and I believe you will leave this house a free woman.”

The world outside the house, the walls, even the faded cover on the couch melt away, folding back until there is nothing but the two of us surrounded by the misty ether that fills the spaces in between. Maggie exhales and I inhale, connecting through the air, the invisible ebb of life across the universe. But as suddenly as the world vanished it reappears, the hard edges and sounds making me cringe, reflexively pulling away.

_Damnit, Danvers, that’s the one thing you can’t have._

“Hope, Alex,” Maggie says, as if reading my thoughts. “Don’t give up hope. I haven’t.”

Somehow, stupidly, that’s enough for me to cling to the golden thread she holds, the delicate strand of belief that maybe I have a future.

 

It’s an odd session, Maggie reflects. She broke one of her longstanding rules about physical contact, reaching out to comfort Alex, who seemed unusually vulnerable today. Having completed her tale, she likely senses the end is near, Maggie thinks. A conclusion that everyone considers inevitable. But they still have weeks until the trial. More than a month for Maggie to verify Alex’s story and help her patient recall what she can of the end of the story, the part Alex refers to as the fog.

The road zips by unobtrusively, mirroring Maggie’s racing thoughts. In all her years of practice she’s never touched a patient, skin to skin before, at least not in the context of a session. But it’s an artificial divide isn’t it? They have been living under the same roof for weeks, there has been incidental contact here and there. If she’s won Alex’s trust in part by being around as a peer, then it doesn’t make sense to enforce her usual distance.

And Alex is hardly a typical patient for Maggie. Point in fact, today’s trip to the morgue. The thick pile of notes compiled by the attorney has proven to be both too much and too little information. Maggie finds herself unable to sort through the dense pages and extract what she needs to immerse herself in Alex’s world, to see it from her patient’s perspective. The how and why of the deaths are not important, something for her more technically-inclined medical school brethren to study. Maggie needs faces. Needs to see the shapes and colors that comprise the personalities and names about which she’s heard so much.

“Do you want to see them all?” the morgue attendant asks. Her brow furrows. Quickly Maggie shakes her head. Only a few names interest her today.

The attendant’s face relaxes. “Great. Where would you like to start?”

“Um…” On the drive over she’d thought to begin with Hank Henshaw. But another name escapes her lips, slipping through the cracks of her subconscious.

“Samantha Arias.”

Morbid curiosity, far in excess of what she should feel, fills Maggie as she follows the attendant to the holding room. Carefully the attendant double checks the drawer number before sliding it open. Holding her breath, Maggie steps forward.

“Hm.”

It’s not what she expected. The body is strangely human-like, paled and stitched from the autopsy, but otherwise so very normal in appearance, like a sleeper frozen in time. Sam is as much a surprise. Long brown hair, simple, one might even call them plain features. Not particularly muscular nor curvy figure. There is nothing unusual about the woman, and perhaps that’s the source of confusion. She’s pretty, Maggie supposes, but not stunning. Not that Maggie has any experience rating women on their attractiveness. But she seems out of type for someone as dramatic, bold, and frankly gorgeous as Alex.

Maggie stares several seconds more. It’s not just the stillness of death but the…unremarkable averageness of this creature. She needs to understand what about this ordinary woman literally changed the course of Alex’s life. Why Alex still looks up and to the side when she mentions Sam’s name, the corners of her mouth twitching into a sad smile. All sure signs of the banner Alex continues to bear in her name. Maggie’s insides twinge as it hits her.

_This is it_.

Sam is the beginning. Sam got Alex the job with DEO, it’s how Alex ended up in the bunker to begin. Sam became Reign, the most likely party responsible for the mass destruction. Likely Alex was spared only from their prior relationship, feelings that seem to have lingered on both sides. But now Sam lies dead while Alex bears the cost of surviving.

There is just one tiny problem in addition to convincing a jury that this plain person was responsible for the deaths of almost five dozen people. She’s here, in the morgue. In spite of her powers, Reign was not the last one standing. Someone, or something, ended her.

“Cause of death?” Maggie asks.

“Same as the others,” the attendant replies. “Blunt trauma, apparently from hand-to-hand combat. Suffered severe internal hemorrhaging.”

“Did you do a blood test?”

“Testing for drugs is part of standard protocol.”

“What about testing for genetic modification?”

The attendant perks up slightly, giving Maggie an indecipherable sideways look. “No,” she finally says. “There was no reason to suggest gen mod. Even so, would that be relevant?”

Maggie shrugs, trying to ignore the feeling that she has just made an ass of herself. “I just study minds,” she says. “I think I’m ready to move on. Can I see Hank Henshaw?”

They shuffle a few columns over. The drawer sticks for a second and the attendant grunts with effort. The body of Hank Henshaw is just as Alex described, a dark-skinned man with sharp features and the powerful body of a linebacker. Maggie can easily imagine his steady presence in Alex’s life and the relief it would have brought.

She’s about to tell the attendant she’s finished when a glimmer catches her eye. Maggie leans in close to the body. It’s difficult to tell with her breath misting in the cold room, but Hank’s skin seems to shimmer, almost as if coated with a thin layer of frost. Tentatively she rises a finger.

“Please don’t touch,” the attendant says, placing a hand between her and the frozen form. “It could compromise any further evidence collection.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie says. “I thought I saw something.”

The attendant blocks Maggie’s path and firmly closes the drawer. “Anything else?”

“I think that’s enough. Thank you and again, I’m so sorry.” She receives a curt nod for her apology.

_Well that was embarrassing_. Maggie isn’t quite sure what came over her, wanting to touch the body like that. But at least the excursion wasn’t a complete waste. The riddle from her dream might have been on to something after all. She needs to understand more about Sam. She glances at her watch.

It’s still early afternoon. Time enough to stop by National City University and be back at the Danvers estate for dinner. Alex won’t be happy she stayed out all day, but then again, she’s doing this all for Alex.

 

Young people move in lazy clusters, unhurried during the slow summer term. They’re all fresh-faced and happy, yet to be worn down by the multitude of indignities adult life will throw at them. Maggie can scarcely recall such a time. But maybe that’s because it never was her. These students that walk in groups and smile stand apart from the Maggies of the world, the loners that hurry even though it’s summer and there are no classes, the ones that don’t raise their heads for fear someone might notice them.

Being older, the luxury of blending in is no longer an option. Voices hush when she comes too close, for fear of offending a future professor, and the young people move respectfully out of the way. It makes Maggie feel old. And stupid for wishing she could disappear into the background still. She always thought life would be easier, yet her she is, back again and older with the same insecurities.

The student intern smiles broadly as she enters.

“How can I help you ma’am?” Ugh. When did she become a _ma’am_?

“I’m here to examine some student records. Alexandra Danvers.” She pulls the legal disclosure from her bag. The smile fades as the intern looks around for assistance with this unprecedented situation. Maggie is ushered into a back office while a senior employee reviews her paperwork. She checks boxes and signs forms. The printer whirs as it begins spitting out the relevant records. The college years of Alex Danvers reduced to black smudges on white paper.

“Anything else?” the administrator asks. A thought dances through Maggie’s mind.

“I was hoping for some information on Samantha Arias as well if it’s not –”

_Too much trouble._ Or against protocol really. Maggie’s authorization doesn’t extend beyond Alex’s records. But the administrator doesn’t seem to realize this, for she waves Maggie off, producing an identical set of checklists and signature boxes for Sam. Maggie can hardly breathe knowing her good luck and fearing her not-quite-but-kind-of a lie will be discovered before she can understand the beginning.

A lingering sense of guilt compels Maggie to find a seat in the student union. She can always plead ignorance, not understanding the scope of her authorization. This way the school has some time to perhaps realize their error and prevent Maggie from taking Sam’s records off campus.

Alex appears to have performed relatively well in school up until her final year. At that point her grades plummeted precipitously across the board. If not for the fact that she had already met most requirements, it appears Alex Danvers might not have graduated on time. With a furtive look around, Maggie opens the stack on Sam, comparing the two side by side. Sam was clearly the more academically inclined of the two. Her senior year grades also demonstrated a dip, but A’s dropping to B’s as opposed to B’s dropping into D’s and failing grades. All in all, the transcript tells a story consistent with Sam’s illness and the subsequent fallout during Alex’s final year of college.

Turning a few pages, Maggie begins scanning Alex’s university medical records. Prior vaccinations, intake wellness exam, all normal. Maggie flips past the gynecological exam. A torn calf muscle from cross country and a couple weeks of physical therapy. One visit referred for hospitalization, the cited reason for the visit “flu.”

What follows are several pages that appear to have been scanned and faxed multiple times before ending up in the university’s system. Maggie squints at the distorted pages, not helped at all by the stereotypically sloppy handwriting of medical professionals.

Originally admitted for influenza, the diagnosis appears to have been subsequently revised to “unknown illness.” Fever, difficulty swallowing, swelling of the throat that required the insertion of a breathing tube, and increasing paralysis of the limbs. Vital signs steadily worsening over time. After five days, a recommendation to switch from life-saving to palliative measures. Then, just as quickly, Alex’s vitals rebound. Two days after the recommendation for palliative care, Alex Danvers is being prepared for discharge.

Samantha Arias boosts a much slimmer file. Wellness exams, the occasional visit with counselors cited reason “stress,” and several counselor visits senior year regarding “relationship.” That’s it. No recorded injuries, illnesses, or hospitalizations.

Maggie sets the papers aside, skin cold in the bright summer sun.

_Alex lied._

She lied about getting sick and turned it into something where Sam got sick. Perhaps she wanted to be the strong one in the narrative, the one that saved the day instead of needing help.

Patients lie to their therapist. But Alex lying…she thought Alex trusted her. How many other lies has Alex told? The backs of Maggie’s eyes burn, remembering her pointed question to the morgue attendant.

Reign, the genetic modification, probably that Superman story, not to mention any number of smaller details… All of it wishful thinking or delusion at best and evidence of serious pathology a worst. Maggie’s hand trembles as she collects the records, organizing them neatly back into the folder.

Maybe this is the message her dream was trying to convey. In her weeks of working with Alex, she has been unwittingly led in a circle. What should have been the end, is in fact only a return to the beginning.


	20. Dreams and Lies

During the long drive back to Midvale Maggie’s mind spins around the different versions of the story, records, notes, all conflicting. By the time she pulls into the garage she’s more confused than anything. Hoping to avoid Alex, she moves directly to her room, shutting the door tightly. The box sent over by the attorney rests in the corner. She clears some space on the floor, wanting to do this as thoroughly as possible.

Within minutes the floor is covered by a layer of paper. Medical records for Alex Danvers over the past ten years, those in the official record on one side and the university’s on the other. The discrepancy is evident. One version that mostly matches Alex’s story, and one that does not.

She’s already dialed before realizing it’s nearly seven, but the attorney picks up after the second ring. _When is he not working_ , Maggie wonders.

“Dr. Sawyer,” he says warmly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s been awhile since I checked in,” Maggie says. Her comment is greeted by a low chuckle.

“You know that’s not required,” he says. “I trust that not hearing from you means you’re focused on your work.”

“All the same, I have been doing some research into validating portions of Alex’s story,” Maggie says. “I thought it warranted checking in.”

“By all means. What news, Dr. Sawyer?”

“Alex’s medical records.”

“Ah, so you’ve been able to review them?” The attorney sounds pleased. _Probably not for long._

“Yes, thank you for sending them over.” Maggie pauses, unsure how best to broach the issue. “The thing is, I stopped by the university today and reviewed their records for Alex and there are some…discrepancies.”

“That’s probably to be expected,” the attorney replies. “I’m pretty sure every doctor I’ve ever seen has slightly different records regarding my history.”

“It’s a bit bigger than that. There was a major illness, one that required a week in a hospital. The university referred her.”

“And they had records of the hospitalization?” The attorney sounds skeptical.

“Not particularly high quality, but yes.”

The line is quiet.

“Are you still there?” Maggie asks.

“Yes. I…I’m not sure what to make of that.”

“Right! And Sam’s records show no illness, but the ones you sent over…”

“Perhaps the school mixed them up,” he offers.

“I don’t think so. Plus the symptoms Alex described for Sam were slightly different than what was noted.”

“I see.” His voice sounds very quiet. “Do you believe Alex is lying?”

There it is. With so many versions, the question Maggie must confront, finally voiced. Alex’s expression fills her mind, that self-satisfied smile. The face of a liar, or something else? Residual neurological effect, genuine delusion?

“I don’t know,” Maggie says.

 

I think several times about popping my ankle monitor off and going for a walk. It’s a perfect summer day after all, but I keep waiting for Maggie to return. She left after our session to “do some research,” promising to be back later but frustratingly vague regarding how much later. I’d much rather go for a walk with company so I keep putting it off until the sun reaches the top of the tree line and I realize I’ve missed my chance.

When she finally does arrive, that grey car pulling into the driveway, she beelines for her room. The sound of furniture moving can be heard and then silence. She might be avoiding me. Probably is working on that conference thing. And here I thought I wanted her to have a life.

I wander down to the kitchen and watch Thomas as he finishes cooking dinner. The usually chatty chef keeps to himself, glancing at me occasionally but not engaging. He plates the meal, winking as he adds a couple basil leaves for flourish.

“M’lady,” he says. “Why so forlorn? Missing your other half?”

“She’s not my other half,” I retort.

“Someone’s cranky. Eat up.”

I spin the pasta onto the fork, light seafood sauce drips as I take a bite. Perhaps I am a little cranky. Hangry really. Thomas watches me take a few more bites.

“Should I be worried you’re going to pout all weekend?” he asks. “I know I’m not as pretty as –”

He cuts himself off as someone enters from the stairwell.

“Hi,” Maggie says. “Sorry I’m late.”

Thomas rises, offering his seat with a small bow as he begins to fix a plate for Maggie. I put my head down, shoveling pasta and garlic bread into my mouth. From the corner of my vision Thomas gives me one last long look before vanishing into the back room. For a minute the only sounds are light chewing and the shuffling of silverware.

“Did you have a nice day?” Maggie asks.

“It was fine.”

“Fine, huh?” she repeats in a light tone. “In my experience that almost never means fine.” I think I hate it the most when she does this. Why can’t she ever let me sulk?

“Well, no, it wasn’t fine,” I say. “I spent all day waiting for you to return. But you were gone all day.” I duck my head back down. “It’s stupid though.” And it is. I had no reason to expect her home anytime earlier than now.

“I’m sorry. I had to chase down a few things. But you get me all night,” Maggie adds. She appears to regret the word choice immediately, picking at her food with sudden interest.

“So, uh, how was your day?” I ask after another minute of silence.

“Confusing.” Maggie pokes at her pasta. “I’m just going to ask,” she finally says. “Why didn’t you tell me you got sick in college? Why did you say it was Sam?”

Certainly not the question I expected.

“Because I didn’t get sick. I mean, nothing beyond the standard bug. And Sam did get sick,” I continue. “I remember those nights I spent watching her sleep because I was afraid she’d stop breathing and I wouldn’t be there.”

My eyes fill with water and I blink quickly. I’m not about to let Maggie see me cry right now. Lightning jabs through my chest, the ache of fear never forgotten, anxiety, helplessness. There is no worse feeling than watching someone you love deteriorate in the hard sterile setting of a hospital. The pain of the memory feels as strong as ever. Given the choice of Sam dying or becoming something else I’m still not sure I could let her die today. But there’s a guilt associated with my decision. I never asked Sam what she would have chosen. I never got to ask if she forgave me for making her choice. The realization that I never will rises like a bitter bile from the back of my throat.

“Why the sudden doubt? I thought it was your job to believe me.”

“It’s my job to listen,” Maggie corrects. “And I want to believe you Alex, I really do. But I don’t know what to think when…”

“When what? I’ve never lied to you.”

Maggie studies me closely and in spite of my anger I feel myself shrinking slightly under her steady gaze. Her eyes deepen in color, looking through me, beneath the skin. Something shifts in her expression and she is the first to break eye contact. My face warms as the overwhelming sensation that _she knows_ pulses through my veins.

“I saw Sam today,” she says.

“What?” Which one, I want to ask. The innocent one I fell for so long ago, or the unpredictable, domineering one. But it’s neither, for the only Sam that exists now is silent and cold, and not Sam at all.

“She’s not they type I would have expected you to fall for.”

“What would you know about that?” It comes out somewhat sharply, but I don’t regret the edge to my voice. She has no right.

“Nothing,” Maggie says. “Nothing, of course. I just meant… I don’t know what I meant.” She cups her face in her hands, exhaling sharply. When she removes her hands, she doesn’t look at me.

“If you two continue to pick at your food I’m going to start feeling insulted,” Thomas says, breaking the silence as he re-enters. The clattering as he begins to clean up spurs Maggie back to life.

“It’s lovely, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” Thomas glares pointedly at me. I stick out my tongue.

 

Maggie stares down at the half-finished plate of food. A combination of low-level nausea and exhaustion have combined to make her feel decidedly not hungry. But she forces a few more small bites for Thomas’s benefit before setting the plate aside.

She’s off her game tonight, not syncing well with Alex. Maggie isn’t sure why she raised the topic of Sam. In retrospect it’s easy to predict that Alex would feel provoked. It was a mean move, a cheap way to regain a sense of power after... whatever that was. One minute she’s searching Alex for any signs of lies and the next she noticing small things about Alex like the way she tucks her hair behind her ears when she’s nervous even though it’s too short to stay there, or how the corner of her lips twists up or down to indicate amusement, or the way her irises seem to expand like a pool of melting chocolate when studying something with particular intensity, such as the way she studies Maggie.

Alex slides away from the table abruptly, all but stomping out. Thomas sighs.

“She’s in a mood,” he remarks.

“My fault. I brought up a sensitive topic.” Maggie stands with a sigh of her own. “I owe her an apology, so it seems you can box up dessert for now.”

That familiar sense of intruding fills Maggie’s senses as she crests the step to the third floor. Alex’s bedroom door is closed, light shining in a thin line through the crack at the base.

Maggie knocks softly. “Alex, I’m really sorry.” No response. “Can you open the door? I’d prefer to apologize face-to-face.” Still no answer. Maggie sighs. “Alex, it doesn’t help you if I blindly trust everything you say. I need you to help me understand why some pieces of the story don’t make sense. I am sorry for bringing up Sam, I don’t know what came over me. I suppose I felt hurt about the idea that you might have lied, but that was no reason to take it out on you.”

More silence. That’s about as good as she can do tonight. Maggie is one step away when the door opens, light flooding into a rectangle in the dark hallway. 

“I’m sorry too,” Alex says. “I’ve been in my head a lot today. It makes me a bit wound up.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. Red flags go up. The Sam mis-step might have been a bigger error than she realized.

“Are you ok?” Maggie asks. “You’re not thinking of hurting yourself?”

“I’m not sure.” Alex’s energy bounces all over the place, causing her to practically vibrate. Simply being near her is making Maggie feel anxious.

“What can I do?” The red flags are rapidly turning into flashing red lights. Whatever happened to Alex before, she seems to be on the verge of a similar episode.

“Don’t leave me alone. Please. They always leave.” Alex’s eyes are wide and panicked.

“I’m not leaving,” Maggie says.

She guides Alex over to the bed and obligingly Alex lays down, curling up with a small whimpering sound.

“What’s happening?” Maggie asks, stroking Alex’s head. She’s burning up and could probably use a cold washcloth, but Maggie promised not to leave.

“I can’t hold on.”

“You need to. Remember how you held on in the bunker? How you stayed strong for Kara?”

“I sang.”

“That’s right.”

Tentatively, Alex begins to sing to herself. It’s quiet and low. Her shaking becomes a gentle rocking motion in time to the lullaby and Maggie finds herself swaying to the same rhythm. There is a brief pause at the end of the song before Alex begins again, singing louder this time as Maggie continues to brush strands of hair away from Alex’s face. By the third time through the episode seems to have passed. Alex falls quiet, breathing deeply. The room feels warm and comfortable, as if the song cleansed it of all lingering demons. Maybe it’s enough to keep Reign from haunting her dreams, Maggie thinks.

“Will you stay here tonight?” Alex asks.

“I’m here every night.”

Alex rolls her head to gaze up at Maggie. “I mean here. In this room.”

“I…”

“I just want to know you’re close,” Alex says quickly. “That’s the first time it’s ever gone away. What if it comes back and you’re too far? I don’t know what happens and I’m afraid I might do something.”

Maggie’s heart beats high in her chest. The safety of her patient is of paramount importance. She could call emergency services and have Alex placed in overnight observation at the hospital. That’s what standard protocol would dictate. But what would that do for the trust she’s worked so hard to build? Maggie is here 24-7 to provide exactly this type of full-time support.

She glances at the bed. It’s definitely large enough to accommodate two people. And two women sharing a bed, there’s nothing awkward in that. It’s no different than a sleepover with a friend.

“Alright,” Maggie says. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

The tension melts from Alex’s body as she sits up, throwing her arms around Maggie. Alex’s spicy, earth aroma fills the air, unexpectedly powerful heat radiating off her lean body.

“Thank you,” Alex whispers. 

 

At the beginning of the night, Maggie places a pillow between herself and Alex.

“More to protect you than anything,” Maggie says. “I’ve been told I kick.”

But the pillow steadily works its way down the bed overnight. Maggie wakes curled into Alex, warm breath tickling her nose. Carefully, Maggie tries to extract herself without waking her patient. Cool air rushes into the space causing Maggie to shiver. Alex’s lashes flutter at the slight motion.

“Hey,” Alex says in a sleepy voice. “Did you sleep ok?”

Fantastically well, Maggie thinks. No bizarre dreams and a human furnace to keep her warm.

“You should go back to sleep,” Maggie says.

“Nah, I’m up.” Alex sits up with a stretch. Her shirt pulls up with the stretch and the scars crisscrossing her torso peak into view.

“How are you healing? Maggie asks, gaze averted.

“Oh fine. Just a bit itchy. The usual.” Alex cracks her neck to one side and then the other. “What’s on tap today? Are you bailing on me again?”

“A little bit,” Maggie admits. “I need to work on my presentation for the conference. Remember I’m leaving tomorrow morning but–”

“Thomas will be here to babysit, yeah I know,” Alex finishes. She sighs dramatically. “Go do your thing. Be a useful member to society. But if you want an opinion…” she spreads her arms wide with a grin. “Remember you have a captive audience here. Literally captive.”

Gallows humor. Clearly Alex is feeling better.

The day goes by slowly yet seems to skip several hours in the middle. The unslept bed makes Maggie feel like a stranger in the guest room. When she takes a break to gaze out the window her eye is drawn to Alex, sunbathing by the garden in a bra. She finds herself checking the window every few minutes. Alex appears to fall asleep and Maggie paces by the window, wondering if she should wake her patient before she burns. Eventually, Alex rouses, touching her pinked cheek with a grimace.

At dinner Alex keeps her head turned from Maggie, awkwardly trying to keep her uneven burn from showing.  They eat silently, the unspoken question in the air.

“How are you feeling tonight?” Maggie finally asks. Alex shrugs by way of response.

“Do you…” Maggie isn’t sure how she means this question to end. _Want me to sleep in your room again? Feel like hurting yourself?_

Alex inhales sharply. “Whatever you want.”

Upstairs, Maggie finishes packing and double checks that her presentation has been loaded onto the laptop and her emergency flash drive. The still-made bed reproaches her. This space is so small, so impersonal. It smells of cleaning solution. It feels like an office.

Alex’s light is still on so Maggie knocks softly.

“I figure I’m leaving you alone for two days,” Maggie says as she steps into the room. “Plus, your mattress is nicer and I need a good night of sleep.”

“Right,” Alex says sarcastically. But Maggie catches her biting back a grin as the door closes.

In the dark Maggie inhales Alex’s ambient scent. It’s so familiar, pervading all their sessions and time together. Surrounded by comfortable odors and Alex’s steady, warm breathing, Maggie quickly drifts away.

 

Reign leans directly over Maggie, stroking her cheek with unexpected softness, thumb tracing a wavy line to the corner of her mouth. Unconsciously Maggie’s lips part and she gnaws against the soft skin. Reign’s eyes deepen into her head as she smiles, gently pressing her thumb into Maggie’s mouth.

Reign may be the one she sees in this dream, but it’s Alex’s scent that fills her nose, that intoxicating mix of leather and citrus that wafts past, catching Maggie’s breath every time. Maggie’s eyes close as she kisses the hand on her mouth, tongue and lips closing around the digit. Reign drags her thumb free, wet saliva trailing across Maggie’s cheek.

“Good girl,” Reign coos. The praise of her nightmare excites Maggie in a way she’s never felt. The uncertainty, the lack of control, her submission. Perhaps this is what Reign wanted from Maggie all along. All the walls she’s spent a lifetime building stripped down, leaving nothing but Maggie’s essence, raw and exposed. In this form there can be no lying, no illusions, even from herself.

“Why are you here Maggie Sawyer?” The command reverberates, echoing through Maggie’s bones.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” It’s a relief to say it, to finally acknowledge the truth of her deepest fear.

“You don’t have to be alone.” The whisper makes Maggie shiver. “Tell me what you want.”

“I…”

Images more than words fill her mind. Alex, reclined in the sun, the heat emanating from her body, the battlefield of scars, the bend of her body when she leans across the pool table, the sadness in her eyes, the way the corner of her mouth twitches before she laughs, the shape of her lips…

Reign smiles as if Maggie somehow put her incoherent thought into a request. Hot breath tickles the space just below her nose. Fear fills Maggie’s limbs as they grow stiff and heavy. She braces for…something. Pain? The violent end that will wake her up gasping?

The warm hand tilts Maggie’s face slightly as soft lips land against her own. Maggie raises her head and follows, and their next kiss is stronger, deeper, seems to reach beyond the surface of skin to the soul beyond. Maggie loses count of how many times they connect, lips and tongues dancing as electricity zips from one to the other until the air in the room has been spent and they lay panting against each other in the dark for seconds or for hours.

“What does it mean?” Maggie asks.

Reign rolls aside to the space where Alex should be. “Back to sleep, now,” she says. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

“You won’t tell?”

Reign’s features sharpen as she smiles. “I haven’t yet.” Reign curls into a ball, shadows falling away until all that remains is Alex, breathing gently beside Maggie. She smells so good. Maggie reaches, gently touching Alex on the lips, those lips she wishes she’d been kissing instead of Reign.

Ice grips her heart as Alex yawns through her damp lips.

_This is not a dream_.

It’s all so obvious now. Reign has been here the entire time. And she knows Maggie’s secret.


	21. Maggie

Maggie slips out of Alex’s room before dawn. Her bag awaits in the guest room, clothes for the day laid out on the unused bed. Quickly she changes, musses up the sheets so the cleaning staff don’t talk, and then heads down to the car. She is on the road in less than fifteen minutes, after wasting one of those debating if she should wake Alex to say good-bye. Perhaps she should ask how Alex slept, see if she is aware of Reign’s actions last night. Indecision is enough to decide against the move. Maggie isn’t ready for that conversation yet.

As she drives, her brain bounces between her presentation and thoughts of Alex and Reign. Reign and Alex. Clearly Reign is trying to throw Maggie off, trying to distract her from some essential truth. Likely a truth about which Alex has no idea. It’s Reign that needs to be the focus of her work when she returns. It’s Reign that Maggie must learn to draw out, to make confess or at least acknowledge what happened.

No easy feat though, Maggie thinks. Reign has proven adept at psychological manipulation, using Maggie’s care for her patient against her. Even making her feel things she shouldn’t. Things she doesn’t. Maggie would never fall for a patient, and she can’t possibly be romantically interested in a woman. Reign has her confused, mistaking her therapeutic attachment to Alex for something else.

The road zips by as her thoughts turn to the conference. Interesting how the subconscious identity is aware of the other but not vice versa. Reign must serve as a kind of protective layer, shielding Alex from certain stressors, engaging in quite sophisticated maneuvers. It’s a fancy bit of self-deception, Maggie thinks, for not everyone could sustain that type of duality. She will have to take care not to harm Alex as she tries to extract Reign.

At the airport, the rush of the day ahead takes over. The flight is blissfully quick and it’s only mid-morning by the time her car pulls up to the conference. Maggie catches sight of a few former colleagues in the networking session. Plenty of time to catch up later.

Her presentation is well-attended and well-received. Only a few attendees attempt to ask about her work on the bunker murders, something Maggie easily deflects with a couple of prepared quips. As she collects her things and heads off stage a respectable crowd queues up along the side of the room, hoping for the chance to exchange some comments one-on-one.

There are the usual admirers, jealous passive-aggressive researchers, clinicians looking for advice or sympathy regarding their own difficult clients, then the salespeople seeking sponsorship of this or that or trying to sell Maggie on their latest miracle drug. Slowly the line thins until all that remains is a young woman, nervously pushing her glasses up her nose, swinging a notebook by her side. The room is beginning to fill for the next speaker, so Maggie grabs her suitcase and steps into the hallway.

“I thought you were just wonderful,” the young woman gushes. Maggie gives what she knows is a tired smile.

“Thank you.” Discretely she checks her watch. The hotel should have a room available by now. She’d love to drop off her stuff, maybe hop in the shower and change before tackling the remainder of the day. Her fan continues to stand there, seemingly unaware of Maggie’s priorities.

“I should…” Maggie says, gesturing down the hall.

“Of course!” The blonde woman jumps into step beside Maggie, free hand waving as she speaks. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to hold you up. I’m just very interested in you. In what you study. I know you’re doing the bunker case, and I know you can’t talk about it,” she adds quickly. “But I think it’s fascinating. Not just that case but all of it. And, well, I’d really appreciate if I could sit down with you sometime this weekend to pick your brain.”

Maggie pauses a few steps away from the front desk. “And you are…?”

“Oh right!” She switches her notebook to the other side and eagerly extends a hand. “Carol Kent. I’m a, uh, graduate student. My thesis is on identity. Dissociative identities. Specifically.”

“Dissociation, huh?” Maggie takes a second look at the grad student. Earnest and bubbly, nerves causing her to fidget, but overall fairly composed for one so young. Probably feels out of place at this conference that mostly contains practitioners and Ph.D.-level researchers. Despite her exhaustion, Maggie feels a stab of sympathy for this ambitious student.

“Listen, I just flew in this morning so I’m feeling a little grimy,” Maggie says. “But I’d be happy to chat with you later. Will you be attending the dinner tonight?”

Carol’s face lights up and then fades. “No…I think it’s invite only.”

_Right._ Maggie holds up a finger, digging through her presenter’s gift bag. She hands the extra dinner ticket to the young woman.

“It’s never fun to go to these things alone,” Maggie says. “You can be my plus one. I can also introduce you to a few of my colleagues then.”

“Oh my gosh,” Carol breathes. “Thank you _so much_. You are the coolest!” Holding tightly to the ticket, Carol gives a small wave and fairly skips back down the hallway.

 

The shower helps shake Maggie’s post-presentation lull and the afternoon sessions go by quickly, especially once Maggie spots Andrea Barrett in the crowd.

“Dr. Barrett,” Maggie says, taking the seat beside her medical school study partner.

“Dr. Sawyer!” The short woman with thick curls squeezes Maggie around the shoulder. “You really lit it up this morning,” Dr. Barrett adds. “You know Grady had the time slot right after. Half the seats were open.”

“Well, it’s a big auditorium.”

“Perhaps. But I noticed a lot of people who couldn’t even get a seat during yours.”

“Oh stop,” Maggie says. But it feels good to outshine the pompous Dr. Grady. Years of collegiality in the small world of bunker-related PTSD prohibit any of them from refusing to acknowledge the other. But it doesn’t make Maggie enjoy his company any more. Thankfully Andrea knows just what to say to make the situation bearable.

They both quiet down as the panel completes their long-winded introductions, finally getting into the topic of new therapeutic techniques. None of its really ‘new,’ Maggie reflects, but some interesting ideas are debated between the panelists before they open it up to audience questions.

The first few questions are fairly rout and Maggie’s attention begins to wander. What is Alex up to right now? Does she know about Reign? Is she thinking about Maggie now? The feel of their kiss returns like a ghost and Maggie licks her lips. Dr. Barrett nudges her. Dr. Grady stands at the microphone.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m wondering what you all think of immersive therapy in the context of traumatic stress. I’ve found great success yet you all appear to disparage the concept.”

“What an idiot,” Dr. Barrett whispers.

Maggie shakes her head. “Figures he would be in favor of something as archaic as repeatedly exposing his patients to trauma. What better way to make sure the wound never heals?”

“And to further traumatize the patient,” Dr. Barrett agrees.

The panel goes back and forth for a few minutes before the moderator pointedly notes only five minutes remain. Dr. Grady takes his seat with a smirk. Maggie tries to pay attention, but a crawling sensation makes her restless. She glances over to see Dr. Grady watching her. Eye contact made, he turns his attention back to the panel.

“Shit,” Maggie says. “He saw us.”

“You didn’t actually think you could hide from him the entire weekend? Your name is in the program. Of course he’d look for you.”

The audience applauds as the moderator closes the session. There’s a brief moment where Maggie loses sight of Dr. Grady as everyone stands and collects their things, and then he is waiting at the end of their row, impossible to avoid.

“Maggie,” he says.

“Brian.”

“May I escort you to the reception?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Their awkward threesome meanders through the crowd of chatting psychiatrists out to the open patio being set up for dinner.

Dr. Barrett snags a glass of red wine while Maggie manages to extract herself from Dr. Grady’s arm to get a whiskey from the bar. Dr. Barrett and Dr. Grady are deep in conversation by the time she returns. The whiskey burns pleasantly and Maggie’s nerves slowly unbundle. More people begin arriving, adding a nice buzz of noise to accompany the summer twilight orchestra of insects.

“Dr. Sawyer!”

Maggie turns in surprise, still holding the whiskey in one hand. Carol sighs happily. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you!”

Dr. Grady raises an eyebrow but is interrupted by someone loudly clapping their hands.

“Attention all! Dinner will be served shortly. If you could begin to make your way to the adjoining patio please!”

En masse the crowd wobbles, dispersing to the large circular tables. Carol grabs the seat next to Maggie while Dr. Grady claims the other side, Dr. Barrett to his left.

“What did you think of the panel this afternoon?” Dr. Grady asks.

“Not bad,” Maggie responds. “Though I’m not sure what you were going for with that question.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried immersion with one of your patients?”

“I try to help with trauma, not worsen it.”

“That’s an interesting perspective for someone who seems to be practicing exactly that style of treatment,” Dr. Grady replies.

“Excuse me?”

“Your current patient. The bunker killer.”

“Alleged.”

Dr. Grady waves the correction aside. “Are you not treating her within a singular confined location?”

“A family home, yes. But that’s hardly the same.”

“Is that so? Limited space, limited social interaction…it’s awfully intimate. Especially with just the two of you.”

“The house staff are present daily,” Maggie says. “And it’s not confined; not in the same sense. It’s open air and I can come and go as I please.”

“Yet I hear you don’t leave much.”

“I have no need to.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps this is another Yvonne situation.”

The name Maggie hasn’t thought of in years catches her by surprise and she gasps audibly.

“Yvonne?” asks Dr. Barrett, glancing from face to face. Carol appears even more confused.

“A resident of the government bunker,” Maggie says. “One of my patients.”

“Alas, one that never made it out,” Dr. Grady adds. “Hung herself in the laundry room with six months to go.”

Maggie grits her teeth. “You should have never taken over her treatment,” she says.

“You were too close to properly treat her,” he fires back. “I was protecting your professional reputation.”

“I’m sure Dr. Sawyer is capable of remaining professional regardless of the circumstances,” Dr. Barrett says. “But also tragedies do happen. It’s inevitable in this line of work.”

“Yes, it is,” Dr. Grady says. “But, there is a silver lining. It brought us together.”

He raises a glass and Maggie suppresses the urge to vomit.

Hands down her biggest regret from the Dark Years was allowing Dr. Grady to bully her into transferring Yvonne Chin into his care. She was young, and when he threatened to report her for having an inappropriate patient-therapist relationship, she panicked. But a close second to that regret is the depression-fueled liaison with Brian Grady in the wake of Yvonne’s death. Finding solace in sex is normal, but to Maggie it was more punishment for her failure than solace. It was obvious within a week that the relationship was a bad idea, but she let it drag on until the day the bunker seal opened. Dr. Grady never missed an opportunity to bring up their fling at these kinds of events, a habit that always left Maggie feeling dirty, as if she’d never be clean of him.

“I’d wager that tragedies are less likely to happen when one takes a more sympathetic approach,” Maggie says. “Addressing trauma head on is rarely effective. It wasn’t with Yvonne, and I doubt it is when it comes to immersive therapy.”

“I don’t believe sympathy is appropriate.”

Maggie sips her whiskey before responding.

“I’d counter that ‘appropriate’ is merely your way of trying to distance yourself emotionally. Perhaps you should reflect why you respond so strongly to the slightest implication of intimacy.”

“Zing!” Dr. Barrett laughs. “If only the whole event featured such lively discussion. However, I’m afraid we may be putting our guest ill at ease with this intensity.” Dr. Barrett smiles at Carol.

“Don’t mind me,” Carol says, eyes wide. “I’m just here to learn.”

As event staff begin to circulate with salads and then entrees, Dr. Barrett seamlessly moves their conversation to less controversial topics, entertaining Carol with the behind-the-scene rundown of the next day’s speakers. Even Dr. Grady stops pouting, trying to impress the young grad student with his insider knowledge.

Occasionally Maggie contributes, but the conversation flutters in and out of consciousness as her thoughts turn to Alex, probably eating dinner around the kitchen island with Thomas right now. Almost certainly better food, Maggie thinks, poking at the bland chicken and limp greens. But without the benefit of alcohol. Not that she would need alcohol to bear Alex’s presence. Alex is a delightful dinner companion. Not as socially gifted as Dr. Barrett perhaps, but with a sharp, sarcastic wit and small attentions that make Maggie feel as though she is the most interesting person in the world. Someone pats her shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Carol asks. “You were smiling.”

“Uh, just thinking how nice it will feel to lay down later,” Maggie says.

Between the two glasses of whiskey and decidedly lackluster food, she’s definitely feeling the onset of drunken sleepiness. If only she could sleep in Alex’s bed tonight. Hotel beds are always uncomfortable, either too hard or too soft and sheets that tend to slide off in the night. For at least the dozenth time today Maggie recalls the feel of Reign’s – no, Alex’s – lips against her own, the warm breath on her cheek. She touches a hand to her cheek. This whiskey is really warming her face.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” Maggie says, rising from her chair. Dr. Grady stands as well, moving behind her as though he plans to join.

“Uh, Dr. Sawyer, didn’t you promise to share some of those article with me?” Carol asks. “For my thesis.” She gazes at Maggie intently with an expression Maggie recognizes from having stood in Carol’s shoes on more than one occasion.

“Of course! Thank you for reminding me,” Maggie says. She steps away from Dr. Grady and smiles, more in Dr. Barrett’s direction than Dr. Grady’s. “It was lovely catching up with you both. I expect I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a great night.”

Maggie releases her breath once they are out of earshot.

“Thanks for the assist,” Maggie says. “I did promise you time for questions. What do you say to grabbing a drink at that place across the street?”

“That would be awesome!”

They slip past the hotel bar which is crawling with conference attendees. The restaurant across the street is blissfully clear of the conference crowd, playing host instead to a modest collection of families and locals. The hostess seats them in a booth and Maggie promptly orders a beer while Carol gets three orders of potstickers.

“One for you,” Carol says when Maggie asks. “I saw you picking at your plate. You must be starving.”

She’s not wrong. When the food arrives they both inhale the greasy nuggets. Maybe it’s the booze or the crappy dinner from earlier but it tastes delicious.

“Tell me about your thesis,” Maggie says between bites. “Dissociative identities. How did you come to be interested in that?”

“It’s close to home.”

“Family member?”

“Yeah.” Carol shovels potstickers into her mouth. She must have an amazing metabolism to stay so skinny.

“Must have been hard.”

“Sometimes. But also really interesting. In some ways it’s like you get to know the person even better. Those subliminal traits that would normally never get expression come out. You get to see what happens. Understand who they really are.”

“That’s an optimistic view.”

“I like to think I see the best in people.” Carol holds her fork aloft as she regards Maggie. “Like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re compassionate,” Carol says. “When you talk about identity and the challenges it creates for people, you clearly care. Even when those people have done horrible things. You don’t judge.”

“That’s just part of the job,” Maggie says.

“I have a feeling Dr. Grady would disagree.”

Maggie raises her glass. “Touché.”

“What drew you to study identity?” Carol asks.

“I’m not sure. I suppose I sort of fell into it. My whole life, I’ve always felt as if I were missing something. I remember hearing about identity theory and thinking _this could be the answer_. That maybe in dissecting my own sense of identity I could find what I was lacking relative to other people.”

“And have you?”

“Not yet.” Maggie laughs in an off-key pitch. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she says.

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger,” Carol responds.

“You’re right,” Maggie. “Maybe you should consider medical school instead of research. You would make a great therapist.”

Maggie tips back her glass, chugging the last of the beer. She hasn’t figured it out, but perhaps it’s because she refuses to acknowledge it. A thing ignored doesn’t make it not exist. She sighs unevenly.

“What is it?” Carol asks. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.” Her face is all earnest sincerity as she makes an ‘x’ motion across her heart. She really would make an outstanding therapist, Maggie thinks.

“It’s about my client. The one in the bunker case.” She pauses to collect her thoughts.

“Well, kind of. The thing is, I’ve been having dreams about it. The usual mulling over the pieces, trying to understand how it all fits together. But lately something has changed and it wasn’t until just before this conference that I realized I… I have become very attached to Alex. To my patient. Again, not unusual, but when paired with the dreams and such.” Maggie hears herself speaking more and more quickly.

“You care about her.” Carol’s voice rises hopefully. “See? I knew I was right about you. I think it’s commendable.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Maggie twists her hands together unconsciously. “All of this stuff we’ve been talking about. Identity and what’s missing, then there’s the case and Alex…She doesn’t know… And I have never… I’m not…”

“Just relax. Take a deep breath,” Carol says. Maggie inhales and on the exhale lets everything out.

“I think I might be gay,” Maggie says.

Carol blinks. “Oh? Is…that it?”

Not even close, Maggie thinks. There is the connection between Alex and Reign, the fact that she’s already kissed her patient, and the fact that Alex is presumably unaware of the dalliance. But distilling her anxiety down to a single point, the revelation that she might be falling – might have already fallen – for another woman captures the bulk of it.

“Yes,” Maggie says.

“Well I think that’s great,” Carol replies.

“You do?”

“Absolutely! I mean, my sister is gay and she’s the most amazing person I know. I think understanding yourself is the beginning to understanding the world. Your patients included.”

Carol beams at Maggie from across the table. “Hey, this might be weird because we just met, but can I give you a hug?”


	22. Denial

Maggie shows Carol around the second day of the conference, introducing her to speakers and directing her to the better offerings. During the final mid-afternoon session Maggie exchanges numbers with the graduate student.

“You have a bright future,” Maggie says. “I’d love to help you out when you finish your studies.”

Maggie isn’t sure how much of that is true versus feeling she needs to offer something in exchange for keeping her drunken outburst under wraps. Carol is too polite to mention it, but it must have been embarrassing to have had to comfort a thirty-something in the midst of a sexual orientation crisis.

Maggie has tried to avoid thinking about the scene. It was a strange moment. She was tired, a little drunk, disgusted by Dr. Grady’s reconciliation attempts, and missing her patient, who just so happens to be female. Obviously, she misjudged her feelings in that moment, concluding she must be gay. Fortunately, a night of sleep cleared her head.

The trip back to Midvale feels slow. Maggie can’t wait to throw memories of the weekend aside, let them fade into something more pleasant as they become past. The weekend wasn’t a mistake, but she’s felt the lost time with her patient more acutely than expected. So much could have been accomplished while she networked and made small talk. It’s frustrating. The sheer not-knowingness of it all makes her bounce with impatience.

She wants to know everything. What did Alex and Thomas do? Did they talk? Did they fight? How did Alex sleep? Did she have any episodes?

The questions she longs to ask spin around, propelling her down the last highway towards Midvale. She imagines Alex’s smirk as she offers some sassy response. With a smile she turns up the music and hums along.

The Danvers home rises above, twilit shadows beginning to creep around the eaves and awning, stretching the house into a demonic version of itself. The image makes her heart pound as she parks and collects her bag from the trunk. Not quite the cheerful welcome Maggie imagined.

Immediately inside Maggie feels Alex’s presence – or perhaps it’s Reign. It settles her, as if she’s been walking around with a hole covered by her clothes. She can hear voices chatting as she descends to the kitchen, abandoning her bag in the foyer. In the kitchen Alex leans with her elbows on the kitchen island, twinkle in her eye as she teases Thomas. He stands in front of an oversized pot on the stove, spoon in hand and indignant expression on his face. The conversation pauses as they notice her. Maggie feels Thomas’s eyes on her but she can’t seem to break the stare she shares with Alex.

“Hi,” Maggie says.

 

“I’m just saying, maybe we could have had something other than chili tonight of all nights,” I say.

“ _Tonight_ , of all nights,” repeats Thomas. “Pray tell, what’s so special about _tonight_.” He places particular emphasis on the last syllable.

“Oh come on.”

“No, really,” Thomas says. “I want to know.”

“You’re impossible,” I groan. “You know Maggie is returning tonight. Do you really think she’s going to want chili after traveling?”

“You act like I’m trying to sabotage something.”

“That’s a great point,” I say. “Are you jealous? You know it’s never going to happen, right?”

Thomas spins, holding the stirring spoon aloft. “I’ll have you know I have a very well-developed feminine side.”

I feel Maggie before I see her.

“Hi,” she says.

I wish I could kick myself or have someone slap the goofy grin I know I’m wearing off my face. It’s so stupid to be falling for her. My therapist is unavailable in every sense from being straight, to being _my therapist_ , to being a normal person not accused of multiple murders.

“Hi,” I say. Or that’s what I try to say. It comes out more like “hngg.” Thomas nearly chokes, turning quickly back to the pot. I can feel the tips of my ears burning.

“It smells delicious in here,” Maggie says. “I really missed you Thomas. You’ve spoiled me.”

Thomas turns with a pointed look at me. “See? Some people know how to show their appreciation.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you, it’s that chili isn’t what I would have chosen,” I correct.

“What’s wrong with chili?” Maggie asks.

“I…didn’t know if you liked it.” I stutter.

Maggie laughs, a beautiful tinkling sound like a windchime against a blue sky. “You can’t plan dinner around me,” she says.

“I just wanted you to feel welcome. Welcome back.” _Get a grip, Danvers._

“Well, thank you. It’s great to be back.”

She flashes that incredible smile again and I grip the table to keep from falling over. Somewhere in my brain I had this idea that after two days away my dumb crush would fade. Instead the opposite seems to be true. In memory she’s but a shadow of herself, not half as stunning as in person. She’s the appearance of steady confidence with her smiles and pantsuit. It should be out of place in the kitchen, much too formal and stuffy, but she makes it work. I suspect she’s what a lot of marketing companies trip over themselves to find. She’s professional but cool. Casual yet sexy.

“Ladies,” Thomas says as he slides them each a bowl, following up with a center plate of cornbread.

Maggie eats as if it’s her first meal of the weekend. I can scarcely taste the food over my nerves and set the bowl aside half-finished.

“How did your presentation go?” I ask. I hate myself for such a banal question, the type at which I would openly roll my eyes, but it’s literally the only thing I can think to ask.

“It went well. I met some interesting people. Some less interesting old colleagues. But I’m glad to be back,” she adds.

That dumb grin reappears on my face and I shovel another spoonful of chili that I can’t taste to hide my expression. After dinner we head upstairs and for some reason I insist on carrying her bag. I walk all the way up to the third floor before realizing I’ve gone a full flight of stairs past the guest room.

“There’s an extra room up here,” I blurt. It’s not quite a lie. My parents’ master bedroom is at the end of the hall, largely untouched. The cleaning crew went through one of my first days under house arrest, but otherwise it’s just been sitting empty. I’d never thought to place Maggie there because…well, I didn’t think I wanted anyone close to me.

“Oh?” Maggie says in surprise. “My room is fine…”

“This one is bigger,” I say. “Plus if I have an episode again. Then you don’t have to share a bed with me. I can help you move the rest of your stuff.”

A bit frantically I roll her bag down the hall and toss open the door to the master room. A musty, stale odor wafts from the room. Quickly I pop open the windows for some fresh air, straightening items on the dresser, smoothing the bedsheets, and brushing the light dust from surfaces. Maggie stands in the doorway with a perplexed expression.

“It’s much bigger than what I need,” she says. Tentatively she takes a single step inside.

“You don’t have to take it,” I say. My mind is spinning, trying to keep up with the word vomit spewing from my mouth. “I can take your bag downstairs.”

“No, it’s fine. I…I was just surprised.” She gives a half-hearted smile. “A good surprise,” she clarifies.

It takes a deceptively long time to collect and move Maggie’s things from the guest room to master bedroom. When we bring the last of her items up, I watch as Maggie sets things in their new place. She clears her throat.

“Would it bother you if I sleep in your room?” she asks, not looking at me. “The thing is, I slept in an unfamiliar bed last night and…” She trails off.

“Yeah,” I blurt. “Sure!”

Relief fills her face.

“Great. I guess I’ll just change and then be over?”

“Right.” I suppose that’s my cue to stop watching her like a creep. I close the door on my way out and zip into my own pajamas. Minutes after Maggie enters I turn off the light. My heart slows to a steady rhythm and then all is quiet.

 

“I’d like us to discuss your blackouts,” Maggie says.

We’ve had breakfast and settled into a shady corner of the lawn. I’d been hoping we could avoid blackout talk. This is not how I want today to go. “Ok.”

“Do you think they increased in frequency during the Dark Years?”

Absolutely. “Maybe a little,” I say, turning my head to the side.

“Any sense what triggers them? Themes? Certain activities that occurred just prior to the memory gap?”

Her questions make me itchy. I consider sitting up from my reclined position in the grass but I won’t let her win. I’m going to enjoy being outside with Maggie, even if I have to itch and lie the entire time.

“No, I don’t,” I say. “It’s not really something I dwell on.”

“Have you ever thought about why these blackouts occur?”

“Not really.”

Maggie purses her lips, patience beginning to wear thin.

“Alex, are you familiar with the concept of dissociation?”

“Huh?” The branches shading my face shift and for a few seconds the world becomes blinding white light. I blink rapidly, vision slowly returning to normal. The sudden light has caused me to forget Maggie’s question.

“What did you say?” I ask.

 

Alex is being difficult. Maggie is pretty sure she’s doing it just to provoke her to the point of open frustration. She tries a few variations on the same question, hoping one of them may prompt Alex to talk. More than seeking a direct answer Maggie wants to hear the response, whatever unconscious association Alex’s brain might be making that could reveal a clue. But Alex refuses to bite, even going so far as to turn her head away from Maggie.

Something changes when she asks about dissociation though. Alex stutters, then pauses. She blinks her eyes several times, pupils dilating rapidly. She leans up on one elbow, facial posture changed. The hairs on Maggie’s arm rise.

She’s proved it. She isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or bad. Thank god they are out of earshot of any of the household staff. Maggie straightens her posture, adopting the stricter tone she uses with difficult clients.

“Why are you here, Reign?” Maggie asks. “I want to speak with Alex.”

“Well that’s funny, because Alex does not want to speak with you,” Reign retorts.

“Alex enjoys our sessions.”

Reign shrugs. “Sometimes. But she doesn’t like your line of questioning today.”

“Too close to home?”

“You better think about what it means for you, Maggie Sawyer. Do you really want Alex to know everything I know?” Her eyebrows do the work of filling in the blanks. But just in case it isn’t clear Reign also blows Maggie a kiss. She can feel her cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“I think Alex needs to acknowledge this side of herself,” Maggie says. “You’re hurting her.”

“Oh contraire, good doctor. I’m protecting her. She’s not strong enough to deal with this.”

“Deal with what?” Maggie asks. “With me? With the trial? If you won’t let Alex speak then you owe me answers.”

“I owe you nothing,” Reign says. “And yet, I’ve already given you something.”

“What?”

“Silence. I’m no expert; but I’m fairly certain therapists shouldn’t harbor romantic feelings towards their subjects.” Reign leans in. “I’d imagining kissing them crosses the line. Probably also complicates your own ideas. Turns out you’re not as straight as you let on.”

“You tricked me,” Maggie says. “I’ve never –”

“Kissed a woman?” Reign interrupts. “Have some accountability. If you hadn’t wanted it, it never would have happened.”

The judgement is delivered in a purely neutral tone. There can be no arguing, Reign states only fact. The fact is Maggie did want it. She still does. It’s all she could think about last night as Alex snored softly, and Maggie wondered if Reign might appear, might give her another half-taste of what it would be like to kiss Alex Danvers.

“What can’t Alex deal with?” Maggie asks. But even the asking is half-hearted, for it’s obvious Reign knows she holds all the power.

“Try again,” Reign says.

A creature such as Reign isn’t going for subtlety. She seeks control and seeks others to acknowledge her control. Maggie hangs her head. It breaks every rule in the book, but to get what she needs, she must let her patient’s alter ego win.

“What do you want from me?” Maggie asks.

Reign smiles and despite the sun, shadows line her face, carving harsh valleys through her cheekbones.

“Much better,” Reign says. “You met someone named Carol Kent this weekend.”

“Yes. How did you…?”

“I saw you set aside a business card with her information when you unpacked. Did you like her? Who is she?”

“Yes, she seemed very bright,” Maggie says. “A graduate student. Studying dissociative identities.”

“How fortunate. In light of your…attachment I think it prudent to bring in another person. Someone who can testify for Alex in the event things don’t go well.”

“You think I might leave because I have feelings for Alex?” Maggie can’t help but feel a bit insulted at the suggestion. Surely Reign would respect Maggie’s professionalism.

Reign shrugs indifferently. “I’m here to protect Alex,” she says. “As long as you do that, we’re good. But I also prepare for the worst. Bring in Carol Kent as your assistant. She can stay in your old room. You do that and then we can talk. I’ll promise you a full session and I’ll answer anything you want.”

Reign reclines back into the grass, blinking as she gazes into the sun. She sighs and then seems to start, muscles jumping jerkily.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says, blinking as she looks at Maggie. “What did you say?”


	23. Standing Still

Over the next day, Maggie powers through their increasingly meaningless sessions. Alex doesn’t recall anything new, she isn’t interested in engaging, and even Reign doesn’t appear to chastise Maggie. They end the afternoon and next morning session irritated with each other.

Alex storms off to the library, slamming the heavy door loudly. It might as well be the ticking of the clock that shakes the house. Maggie can feel the impending trial. To come so close only to fail… She must find a way around her patient’s sudden stubbornness.

_There is another option_.

Right. Reign’s offer. Bringing on Carol Kent as an assistant actually isn’t a bad idea, Maggie thinks. She could use the help organizing her notes and pulling together her final report for the court. It’s a high-profile opportunity that Maggie would have jumped at as a student.

But a myriad of small factors complicates the prospect. She doesn’t know what school Carol attends. It could be hundreds, even thousands, of miles away. And isn’t the assumption that she’s in school now? Carol can’t just drop out of school for the couple months it will take to go to trial. And even if Carol says yes, will this anger Alex? The request came from Reign, and it’s clear that what Reign knows only occasionally trickles over to Alex’s consciousness. What if bringing Carol in ultimately sets her back in her work with Alex?

The business card with Carol Kent’s phone number and email taunts her from the mostly-empty dresser. She can at least take the first step towards placating Reign. Maggie pulls out her phone and dials.

“Dr. Sawyer,” the attorney says in a warm voice. “What can I do for you today?” Despite his friendly tone, Maggie fidgets with the edge of the bedspread.

“I was wondering if there is room in the budget for me to bring on an assistant.”

“An assistant?” the attorney repeats. “Sure. I had no idea you were feeling underwater.”

“I’m not,” Maggie says. “Not now anyway. But I think it could be helpful to have a second objective perspective. I also have a candidate in mind. A graduate student I met at the conference this past weekend that I think would be well suited to the job.”

“Indeed? May I ask who?”

“Carol Kent.”

“Carol Kent?” His voice rises into skepticism, or maybe incredulity.

“You know her?”

He pauses. “Actually, yes. She’s a family friend. I may have mentioned your name to her at one point. I had no idea she would be attending that conference.”

“Yeah,” Maggie says. “She talked her way into joining me at the speaker’s dinner. She’s very resourceful.”

“That she is,” he says. He clears his throat. “Well, Dr. Sawyer, the evaluation of Alex Danvers is entirely your domain. If you would like the help of an assistant, I will absolutely make sure you have the funds to do so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“All the best, doctor.”

Halfway there.

With a sigh, Maggie opens her laptop to compose an offer to Carol Kent. All her prior doubts rise from their earlier graves to make one last pitch to her rational side. _This is stupid_. Maggie buries her face in her hands, releasing a slew of muffled curses. Too late now. Maybe Carol Kent won’t respond, and then all of these worries will be moot. With a pained expression, Maggie hits send. All she can do now is wait.

 

“Are you ready to try again?” Maggie asks, breaking my concentration on the puzzle laid out on the library floor. I’d been hoping to avoid her this morning. A star-shaped piece catches my eye and with satisfaction I snap it into place, completing the rightmost side of the bridge.

“I’d rather not,” I say.

I don’t know what Maggie is going for in our sessions lately. Since finishing my story Maggie seems insistent on discussing my blackouts and triggers. She appears to take particular enjoyment reminding me of the myriad of failures in my life and asking what changes I would make. All pointless since there is no going back in life, only forward, and whatever mistakes I’ve made must be confined to the past. It’s not something I want to rehash. I’ve got enough to deal with here in the present.

“Come on, Alex, can you try?”

“I don’t remember anything else,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to have some techniques beyond grilling me to death with the same damn questions?”

“Yes,” Maggie says. “But we’re not there yet. You’re not ready.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

In response Maggie shakes her head. “It has to be your breakthrough,” she says crouching beside me. Her hand hoovers above the cloud pieces. She plucks a piece and snaps it into the corner.

“Have you ever been hospitalized, Alex?”

“What? No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure.” I’m trying to focus on shapes and colors and edges. The answer should be no. I’ve never been hospitalized. I’ve stayed overnight at the hospital, like when Sam was there. But I’ve never had to sit in one of those narrow beds with the thin mattress, although I can feel the crinkling undersheet, oversized plastic rails, tubes in the nose that hurt like a mother, but if they weren’t there I couldn’t breathe… I shake my head and the image rights itself. I’m back in the visitor’s chair and Sam rests in the bed, smiling through the pain she must be feeling.

When I look up Maggie is staring.

“What? The answer is no.”

“Ok,” Maggie says. She seems to be accepting it at face value which is at least some kind of progress. “But you’ve been sick before. Everyone gets sick, even if you don’t see a doctor for it.”

“Sure.”

Maggie riffles through the puzzle pieces indifferently. “Once when I was a kid I got the flu. I was so upset, because I had a gymnastics competition that weekend I was super excited for. But my mom made me skip it. I fell asleep in my parents’ bed, but when I woke up and remembered the meet, I tried to get up, so I could convince my mom to drive me there because I thought I must be better.” Maggie chuckles as she tries to place a piece that doesn’t quite fit. I take it and connect it to the section I’m building out.

“I never made it out of the room,” Maggie says. “I stood and everything slid sideways. I knocked over a small bookshelf. I had a temperature of 103 degrees. When I closed my eyes I saw spirals that turned into checkerboards and back again. I think it’s the sickest I’ve ever been.”

I shuffle some pieces around but I’m not really concentrating anymore.

“I know what you’re doing,” I say.

“Making conversation?”

“No.” In truth I’m not quite sure what she’s doing. Or rather, I’m not sure why she’s doing it. Why does Maggie want me to think about times I got sick? What could that possibly have to do with anything? We work in silence for a few more moments, our respective sections growing modestly.

“I did get pretty sick once in college,” I finally say. The human urge to tell stories is too powerful for me to resist Maggie’s invitation.

“Oh yeah?” God, she’s good. Her tone is pleasant but detached, as if what I say matters less than the fact that I’m saying anything.

“Food poisoning,” I say. “Freshman year. We would do a training race at the start of the season where each year competed against the others; freshmen, sophomores, etc.  The losers had to make breakfast for the rest of the team. The juniors tried to poison us all. Sore losers.” I laugh, but it sounds awkward. Why the hell would I tell that story?

“Of course, it wasn’t intentional,” I add. Oh great, now I’m babbling. “Bunch of them got sick too.”

Maggie doesn’t respond and for a second I almost believe she’s not hanging on every word.

“You know what’s weird about being sick?” Maggie asks after a pause. “I always have the most intense dreams then. Does that happen to you?”

“I guess.”

I lean across the half-finished puzzle to grab a piece at the same time Maggie reaches across. She inhales sharply and our faces pass within inches of each other. Her face turns towards mine as our lips just barely brush.

Contact, yes, but brief enough that I would hesitate to call it a kiss. I nearly fall backwards, my starting goal forgotten. The move should have woken me from what is obviously a dream but I’m still here, the phantom pressure of Maggie’s mouth still pulsing. Maggie doesn’t move but remains frozen in position, leaning across the puzzle, gaze downward.

_This isn’t real this isn’t real._

A memory rests on the edge of my brain, just a sneeze away from the light. A forgotten fever dream. 

“What’s going on,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m asking myself or Maggie. I don’t know who is to blame, or if this is even happening. Maggie has yet to respond, contributing to the sensation that I’ve shifted into some alternate universe. Without comment I leave, heading to the one place that has provided me with answers.

It’s been awhile since I dug around the damaged garden bed. It’s not looking very healthy. Maybe I should see if one of the house staff can do a bit of work out here, fix my attempts to pretend I have a green thumb.

As usual, I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find, if anything. But it’s easy to identify once I spot the freshly turned earth near the center of the garden. The scrap of paper is dirty but legible, in that same block handwriting as any of the cryptic messages I receive. But this one gives me pause, being both more and less cryptic than usual.

CAROL KENT, reads the note.

It’s immediately obvious but befuddling. The initials C.K., the double-clicking noise of the pseudonym, the connection to Kara’s cousin, and her endless teasing to him about how much Clark Kent sounded like a fake name. Kara might as well have included a photo of herself winking. Yet still, I’m unsure as to what exactly it means other than being related to Kara. Is she nearby? Did she see me with Maggie earlier?

Involuntarily I glance towards the tree line. But only the usual shadows greet me.

I turn the paper over. Nothing. The paper crumples easily. I’ll flush it later.

It hits me then, as I’m not looking for it, not even thinking of Maggie. My temperature spikes and I remember the fever dream, or at least one of them. There is darkness and the hot, humid air that builds between two bodies. Maggie’s mouth rises to meet my own, hungry for contact as we breath into each other, her body pressing mine close, our bodies an awkward fit at times, her hips rocking unconsciously, silently communicating _I want_ …

The vision fades almost immediately but I feel deep in my core the truth of it. It was too real, too honest to be imagined with the discomforting heat and bumped noses that always occur in real life but never in fantasy.

_How?_ How could I not remember this?

 

Maggie Sawyer might be the most still thing in the universe. She can practically feel the floorboards steadily stretch and droop as centuries wear on, the earth rotating and compressing until that land on which this house stands becomes part of the mountain range a dozen miles away. She is still so long that humanity as a race withers and dies, mutated from its current form, and yet another breed of creature rises from the muck to screw up this new earth.

Her lips on Alex’s. In the full light of day. With Alex as…Alex. Sure it was an accident but would Alex ever believe that and also – was it an accident? It was an accident to have leaned in at the same time, but closing the gap so they would brush faces, cheeks and noses and lips, that seems like it may have been intentional.

Intentional on Maggie’s part. Alex made her revulsion at the thought clear. Maggie’s stomach churns with fear. Alex hates her now. She could lose her license. Her reputation will be in tatters. She doesn’t recognize this stranger and the thought that she’s been the stranger all along without knowing it terrifies her. Unsteadily, she rises to her feet. It’s a mercy when she shuts the bedroom door and takes a breath.

_Think_. _Calm_.

She has to apologize to Alex first. Hope that she can clear it up as momentary confusion or a true accident. Then she needs to stop sleeping in Alex’s room. Needs to get a grip and deal with her personal issues some other day. This is just a job – one job in a long line – and she needs to remember that. An aggressive buzz from her bedside drawer breaks the silence.

_Shit that’s not subtle._

Maggie makes a mental note to turn down the vibration or Alex will easily be able to find her phone. _And then you will have helped her break yet another house rule_ , Maggie thinks. When did she start letting so many rules slide?

“Hello?” Maggie says, answering the unknown number. Maybe her luck is about to change and this is Carol, calling to accept the offer and provide a clean way for Maggie to extract herself from the situation.

“Is this Margaret Sawyer?” asks a female voice. Not Carol. Maggie frowns.

“Yes, who is this? How did you get this number? This is a private line.”

“It’s the number you left on the sign-in log,” the voice says in an unsure tone. “At the morgue?”

“The morgue?”

“Yes, this is Julia Walker… I’m the attendant that spoke to you at the morgue the other day. You came to examine the bodies…?”

“Right. I’m sorry. Did I forget to sign something?”

“No, no.” Julia clears her throat. The shuffling of paper or scratching of clothing against the mic fills the line.

“You asked about genetic modification. On a whim I ran some tests. There was nothing there.” Her voice rattles, picking up speed as she powers ahead, like a wagon beginning a bumpy downhill run.

“I’m sorry to have wasted–”

“Not for Samantha Arias,” Julia continues. “But when I repeated the tests for Hank Henshaw I found something strange.”

For the duration of three heart beats, Maggie hears only the rushing of blood in her ears.

“Hank Henshaw’s DNA appears to have been altered. There were also…other abnormalities.”

“Like what?”

“It’s difficult to explain. But when I examined the body…it seemed off. Shape-wise if that makes sense. It felt different than how it looked.” Julia pauses, breathing heavily. “You tried to touch it. Did you see something? Do you know something?”

“I don’t know what I saw,” Maggie says, words coming out slowly while her brain struggles to catch up. “But thank you for letting me know. Thanks.”

As she hangs up it’s all Maggie can do not to groan.

_Great, one more thing._

 


	24. Reign

“Alex?” As if my thinking has summoned her, Maggie stands at the end of the garden, hands clasped behind her back. How long have I been here? The angle of shadows indicates at least an hour has passed since I balled that scrap of paper into my pocket.

“Hey.” Discretely I feel the outer lining of the pocket. Still there. Did Maggie see me find it?

“I’d like to apologize for what happened earlier,” Maggie says.

“Huh?”

Her throat bobs. “In the library. It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

All I can do is stare. Maggie stands calmly, but her eyes dart all around, unable to meet my own.

“Has it happened before?” I ask. My mind throbs with confusion. “It has, I think. I don’t know how…or when. I’m just remembering it.” A desperate kind of half-laugh escapes. “That or I really am crazy.”

The steely look on Maggie’s face melts into sympathy. “You’re not crazy,” she says. She seems torn between approaching me and steering clear, taking a step forward only to side-step away and repeating. “What do you remember?”

“Um…” Admitting to my crush, even if it might be reciprocated, is not quite something I’m ready for. “Just that,” I say vaguely, waving my hand in the direction of the library.

“What?” Maggie presses. She takes a step forward.

“Alex, I know this situation is embarrassing, for both of us. You’ve never shown any interest in me and I…well I’ve never felt quite the way I do about another woman. But you might be on the verge of something here. I need you to try and remember what you can.”

Maggie’s forehead lines with urgency. Her quick breathing indicates anxiety. She’s practically pleading.

I release a breath and close my eyes, but the memory seems to slip further away. _Shit_. I have to approach it sideways. Think about something else and let it come into view in my periphery.

My thoughts wander back to Kara and her Carol Kent message. Perhaps I’ll see a Carol joining the cleaning staff soon. Then I’d get to see her for a couple minutes every day. I imagine her smiling at me slyly as she enters the library to dust. I’ll glance up from the puzzle and exchange a knowing look. Maggie won’t notice, instead she will reach and…

 _Submit_ , _I growl. Puny and weak, but an intelligence greater than she gets credit for, it is imperative that I keep her under control, that she stays within the lines. Her breath releases willingly. She hasn’t admitted it yet, but she’s almost there. Her lips are ready and eyes close as she kisses my fingers._

_“What do you want?” I ask._

_“You.”_

_Our foreheads come together, the final few seconds to decide how this first kiss will be. Soft, like flower petals brushing against sensitive skin, or hard, the biting, smashed passion of two beings that have waited long enough. But before our lips touch, Maggie breathes one last promise._

_“I want you, Alex,” she says. “I submit to your Reign.”_

No.

“No,” I say, as though saying so might make it go away. “Reign isn’t here. Reign is dead. I know this.” My heart pounds painfully high in my chest.

“Sit down Alex.” Maggie’s calm tone cuts through the shattered noise and even though I’m screaming inside, I take a seat.

“Breathe,” she commands. “In for a count of one, two, three, four; and out.” She counts out breaths but it’s not until she places her hand in mine that I begin to feel calmer. For several minutes I continue the slow breathing, counting in my head until my body is nothing but four-counts of oxygen and I’m light enough to float away.

 

Talk about dumb luck, Maggie thinks. Her idiotic kiss has inadvertently led Alex to a breakthrough. So far, her patient is exhibiting all the standard symptoms of shock, but otherwise responding fairly well. It’s a delicate endeavor though and at this point, timing is everything. Maggie holds out as long as she can, wanting to give Alex the maximal processing time. She holds her hand as they sit in the grass, smooth skin slowly becoming damp with moisture from prolonged contact. They communicate silently through small changes in pressure.

_Are you there?_

_Yes. I am still here._

_Are we ok?_

_I think we are going to be ok. You are going to be ok._

“What can you tell me about Reign?” Maggie asks when she can bear the wait no longer.

“Sam is Reign. She died in the bunker,” Alex recites.

“Is that what you remember?” Maggie pauses before each question, making sure her register is perfectly even, expressing no judgement or criticism.

“I don’t know,” Alex says. Through her palm, Alex’s pulse increases.

“Talk it through,” Maggie urges in a low tone. “Memory can be a funny thing.”

“I remember Sam in the hospital and Kara coming to visit and the blood.”

“Ok.”

“And I remember Sam being Reign. I know that Sam is Reign.”

“Where were you when Reign emerged? Were you always there?”

“I don’t know. I guess. I was usually nearby, like in a corner or something.”

“Watching?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Reign ever speak to you?”

“Of course, she’s the one that ordered me into the brig.”

“Any other time?”

Alex frowns. “I can’t think of any but I’m sure it happened. It had to.” The tiny heartbeat in her palm picks up speed again.

“Remember when I told you about identity?” Maggie says. “How conflict can be created when an event or experience can’t be integrated into the person’s concept of identity.”

“Yeah.”

“One outcome of that situation, the most common in fact, tends to be something like PTSD-categorized condition. Sort of a hanging-on to the event without moving past. But there is another way people can respond.”

“How?”

“Sometimes the event will be isolated. So instead of trying to integrate the experience, it exists as its own little bubble, its own sense of identity. Separate and distinct.”

Alex breathes heavily. “Maggie, why can’t I remember?” She looks up with watery eyes. “I have this story in my head, but when I think about it really hard, all I see is myself in that hospital bed. I can’t picture Reign’s face and I’m afraid it’s because…” Alex’s voice catches. Maggie squeezes her hand amongst the lengthening shadows.

“It’s me, isn’t it,” Alex says. “I’m Reign. I killed them all.”

“You don’t know that,” Maggie says. Well, maybe she does. But when Alex doesn’t correct her, it seems likely her recall of Reign’s actions are still spotty.

“Do you know if there are others?” Alex asks.

“Others?”

“Other…identities,” Alex says. “In me?”

She looks so lost, so scared. Maggie wants to fold her patient into her arms, hold her close and promise that everything will be alright, then take her upstairs and stroke her head until she falls asleep. But she can’t do any of that. Maggie can’t make it alright, she can’t control the trial or the possibility that Alex may have done some terrible things in the bunker. And she definitely can’t take her upstairs and hold her in her arms, far from the possibly prying eyes of staff. Maggie knows this.

“Come with me,” she says.

Alone in Alex’s bedroom, Maggie leads her charge to the bathroom.

“A long, hot shower,” she orders Alex. Maggie returns a few minutes later to pick up Alex’s discarded clothes and set a clean pair of pajamas on the counter. The water runs for a solid twenty minutes. By the time the water stops Maggie is waiting with the sheets turned down. Alex falls into the nook created by Maggie’s open arm, burying her nose and hiding her eyes like a small child might when afraid of the thunderstorm outside.

Blood flows through her body in a never-ending cycle, powerful and warm, connecting mind and hand and soul. For the first time in a long while, Maggie feels whole.

 

Buried in Maggie’s side I can almost forget the horrifying truth. I remember just enough, but still have no idea how bad it might be. I feel myself slipping away as Reign emerges and then the fog grows too dense. Only Maggie’s kiss slips through, perhaps Reign dropping her hold for an instant before taking control once again. I wonder if all we did was kiss, if it was Reign or Maggie that pulled away first, and whether it’s Reign Maggie wants, or me.

“Hey Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it true you feel…different about me?”

Maggie shifts beneath me. “I, uh. I’d rather not talk about that,” she says with a half-laugh.

“Why not? Is it because it’s Reign you like?”

“No,” Maggie says with surprise. “Gods, no. Reign terrifies me. But, um, not in an extreme way. Just…she’s intimidating. But you’re intimidating too. You were when I met you. Before I got to know you.”

Through Maggie’s shirt her heart pounds. I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling at her unfounded nervousness.

“Well, I like you,” I say. “You know, _like you_ like you. I had no idea you felt anything for me.”

The pounding behind the thin layer of cotton accelerates. “You…like me?” It’s practically a whisper.

“What’s not to like?” I say pulling myself up. “You’re smart. You’re gorgeous.” I tuck a curl behind her ear. It stays for a second before stubbornly hopping back out to frame her face. “You’re thoughtful, beautiful, funny, you…”

I can’t help it. My lips close around hers and it’s real, it’s warm, and even better, she returns the kiss, releasing all too soon with a gasp.

“Alex…” Maggie’s face looks pained. “I can’t do this.”

“But you just said –”

“I really like you,” Maggie says. She won’t look at me. “But, you’re my patient.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“Alex, you go to trial in five weeks. You need my testimony. There isn’t time for someone else.”

 _Fuuuuuuuck_.

Figures I fall for someone who maybe possibly could like me too only to be blocked by my stupid situation. Maggie strokes my hand gently and it takes every ounce of self-control to not flip her onto her back right here, to take her and show her what we’re missing, how good we could be together.

“What if…it wasn’t me?” I ask.

“Alex, I may be learning I’m interested in women, and maybe you’re a part of that, but it doesn’t mean I want to go sleep with just any woman.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “Not _me_. But still me?” Maggie’s brow furrows in confusion. Her eyes widen and mouth opens as the meaning hits her.

“Plausible deniability,” I say, cutting her off. “Reign is not your patient.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“Because I need to integrate your Reign personality. She is you, Alex. Just another side of you that you have chosen to ignore.”

“But legally speaking, different, right? I mean, if it turns out Reign killed everyone, I go to the looney bin, not prison.”

“Yes, but –”

“It’s something,” I interrupt. “Let me have this. Let me at least pretend there’s a way…before this ends.”

Maggie exhales, my head rises and falls in tandem with her rib cage. “This doesn’t have to be it,” Maggie says. “You weren’t the only superpowered human in the bunker.”

“Kara would never,” I say.

“Fine. But what about Superman?” Maggie pauses and her heart beat ticks up a notch. “What about Hank Henshaw?”

That gets my attention. “What??”

“Why didn’t you tell me Hank Henshaw also had modified DNA?” Maggie asks. I can only shake my head. “You, Kara, Hank, and Superman.” Maggie ticks the names off on her fingers. “Four genetically enhanced humans in that bunker. Any one of you could have been the triggering cause of the massacre.”

“You mean the murderer.”

“Not strictly speaking, but almost certainly the inciting cause.”

“And you don’t think it was me?”

“I don’t think we know enough about Hank Henshaw to rule him out,” Maggie says. “Did you know about him?” The corners of Maggie’s eyes wrinkle in that way when she’s paying particular attention to body language.

“No,” I say. I suppress the urge to look away and hope my expression hides the pain I feel at lying to Maggie.


	25. One on One

Of course it would have been too easy for Alex to know about Hank Henshaw’s enhanced abilities. Maggie has learned to let any expectations like that go. For now, she’s content to let Alex lean against her like a human blanket smelling of freshly scrubbed skin and soap. When Alex begins to twitch, Maggie slowly removes herself. Alex wakes, but not enough to do much more than whine before falling asleep again.

She needs to consider her words carefully before recording any new case notes. Before getting to that she checks email. Amongst the usual clutter is an enthusiastic response from Carol Kent. Not only does Carol agree to Maggie’s out-of-the-blue request in the affirmative, but she’s willing to start in a few days, noting that she is currently on a mentor-recommended break from classes to explore the practical side of things.

 _A bit indulgent_ , Maggie thinks. Carol must come from money. At least that will be one thing she has in common with Alex from the get-go. She should warn Alex of their new house guest. Hopefully in the midst of other revelations Alex won’t fixate on this almost-certainly-unwelcome development.

But when Maggie lets her know later that evening, Alex seems surprisingly unconcerned.

“Oh yeah?” she asks. “Sounds cool.”

“You’re not worried about someone new?” Maggie asks. “You promise you’ll be nice?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Maggie can only stare. What happened to the surly patient who refused to speak to her for three days? She’d like to imagine some of the change is the trust she’s built, but it feels like there might be something else as well. Before she can dig too much into that, Alex flops into bed and pats the mattress.

“Coming?” she asks with a wink.

Maggie’s cheeks warm to a bright red so vibrant they color the edges of her vision.

“No…”

Alex’s eyes darken and she rises with a hungry look. “So quick to leave,” she says. “Is Dr. Sawyer so embarrassed by the thought of intimacy that she’s forgot about our deal?”

“Our deal?”

Alex tilts her head and it’s clear this is now Reign with whom Maggie is speaking.

“Now?” Maggie asks. “You want to do this now?”

“You want to wait? Why is that Dr. Sawyer? Afraid of what you might learn now that you’ve admitted it to yourself?”

“Maybe I’m just tired of being pushed around,” Maggie retorts.

“Sassy! I see why Alex likes you. Even if you are too weak to do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?” Maggie asks, ignoring Reign’s attempt to provoke.

“Come on doctor. Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not in the mood for this. We will do the session you promised me tomorrow, at Alex’s usual time.”

“Surprisingly cruel of you, doctor. You’ll sit down with Alex and watch her disappear? Not telling her what is going to happen.”

Maggie inhales sharply, standing up to her full five feet, three inches of height. “I will do what has to be done,” she says, before striding out of the room with as much control as she can muster.

 

“When did you leave last night?” Alex asks the next morning as she greets Maggie with tea in the kitchen.

“You fell asleep so fast, I figured I should let you sleep peacefully,” Maggie says. If Alex were paying attention she’d spot the lie, but fortunately she’s involved in combat with the frying pan and some eggs. She groans as the yolk breaks.

“I’ll take that one,” Alex says. Truthfully Maggie’s not sure she’s up for a full breakfast. The knowledge that she will have to face Reign has her stomach full of rocks. Reign could emerge at any moment, after all, she’s not exactly a paragon of reliability. Maybe she will wait for Maggie to start he session, maybe not. Hopefully she will at least wait until they are out of the kitchen, Maggie thinks. Even with the cutlery locked away, there are all manner of dangerous items here.

“You doing ok?” Alex sets a plate with an egg, hash brown patty and burnt toast beside the pile of napkin Maggie has been shredding.

“Sorry,” Maggie says. “I never know what to do with my hands.” It’s an unfortunate choice of words but Alex bites back the easy quip, turning away with a cough. Maggie takes a bite of the runny egg, immediately burning the top of her mouth.

 _Great_.

“Shall we begin?” Alex asks, returning with her own plate.

“No! I mean…no. Why don’t we have a nice breakfast first?”

Alex cocks her head. “Why? What do you know?”

“Nothing.” Maggie pokes at her plate.

“You’re not a very good liar,” Alex remarks. She seems content to leave it at that. Maggie makes an effort to eat, but in addition to not feeling very hungry, the burn does not make it particularly pleasant. As Maggie stares down the last slice of toast the creeping sensation of a pair of eyes on her takes over.

Reign regards her closely from across the table. “You don’t have to pretend to finish,” she says. Her shadowed eyes seem to retreat into her head, obscuring color and lending her face a gaunt appearance. “I know you’re anxious to get started.”

Maggie pushes the plate away. “Shall we go to our usual location?”

Reign doesn’t budge. “I like it here.” She leans back slightly with an expectant look.

“So anything?” Maggie asks.

“That’s the deal. What do you want to know?”

So much. But there isn’t much time.

“Why are you here?” Maggie asks. “Why do you exist?”

“Interesting choice to start there,” Reign says.

“You promised to give me answers, not commentary.”

Reign raises an eyebrow but holds her retort. “This is really your area of expertise more than mine, doctor. Alex needed me, needs me still, and that is why I exist.”

“What created you?”

“Pain. Anger. Fear. All the usual suspects. She was sick, you already know that. I was there in part, sort of a fetus personality if you will. You can’t even begin to imagine the pain of your entire body betraying you. I was Alex’s shield, her way of coping and getting through the day, being able to face her family and friends and protect them from the worst of it.”

“But you became more powerful after the blood.”

“Yes. The genetic modification was not a painless process. Alex told you how it works I assume?”

“No,” Maggie says. “She said it was part of confidential research.”

“Sneaky bitch,” Reign says with a smile. “She’s right, but these are also confidential conversations are they not?”

“They are.”

“It must sting that she doesn’t trust you."

“It’s been awhile since we discussed it,” Maggie says. “I think she would tell me now.”

“Think again, doctor. She lied about Hank just yesterday. I’d wager she still doesn’t trust you.”

“What?”

“It’s so sweet how much you want to believe her.”

The stainless-steel table spins in Maggie’s vision. She grips the edge of the counter to keep from falling sideways off the stool.

 _Stay focused_. Reign is just trying to distract her. _And it’s working_. Yes, but she is better than this. She’s seen all of these tricks before.

“I wonder if you’re jealous of Alex,” Maggie says.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, she got the easy side of the bargain, didn’t she? Gets to live her life without hiding, fits in. Meanwhile you’re stuck dealing with all the pain and anger she feels. Maybe you’re even jealous that it’s her I care for more than you.”

“Alex is weak.” Reign spits her words. “Without me, she wouldn’t survive. She doesn’t know how to use the power she has, she doesn’t want it. She’s a coward, afraid of her own strength.”

“And you’re not?”

Reign stands abruptly, making Maggie start. She grips the table and the stainless-steel crumples in her fists, leaving two deep depressions.

“Do I look afraid?” Her voice reverberates deeply, echoing against the metallic surfaces.

“You’re not physically afraid. But I bet inside you’re terrified. You think you’ve dealt with the fear Alex has at being changed, but all you’ve done is create another layer, put that fear into yet another box. I think the fear is why you act out. Why you use your strength to harm instead of help.”

“So you think I killed them?”

“Did you?”

Reign tilts her head to the side with a small smile.

“The genetic modification is truly remarkable,” Reign says. “In fact, it’s more a genetic complement than true modification. Essentially allowing humans to achieve their maximal genetic potential. See the blood transfusion carries the code for a unique protein. This protein can be activated to cause an individual’s DNA to reconfigure. Are you following?”

“A little…”

“Less than two percent of DNA contributes to your make-up,” Reign explains. It’s a truly bizarre experience to have Reign speaking in language that would sound normal coming from Alex, while discussing her host’s biology.

“The protein Alex received from Kara allows her to ‘release’ some of that additional DNA. Hence impenetrable skin,” Reign says, grabbing the fork off Maggie’s plate and jamming it into her hand. Maggie gasps but the tines bend sharply, not a single one pierces the skin that is now hard as steel.

“Super-strength,” Reign continues, “incredible, and I do mean _incredible_ hearing. And so on. All of this that can be turned on and off at will. What’s interesting is that certain unexpressed genetic factors are remarkably similar across the population, meaning pretty much everyone with this protein will be strong and fast and generally tough to kill. But other elements differ based on genetics. Kara, for example, also had heat vision.”

Reign pauses.

“And Hank had something he referred to as illusionism.”

“Illusionism?”

“It’s a fun word isn’t it? Other people have called him a shapeshifter, said he can take on the appearance of other people or creatures. But it’s a bit more complicated than that. Hank can’t actually become another person, only transform visually. So if you reached out against one of his illusions…” Unconsciously Reign reaches forward. “Your hand would pass right through it. You would feel his form despite seeing something else.” Her hand retracts as she continues gazing past Maggie with a half-smile.

“He loved to fuck with us. Pretend to be someone else so I learned to always go in for the hug with him.”

“You were fond of Hank?”

“Exceptionally,” Reign says. “He understood us.”

“How did Hank Henshaw come by his ability? Kara?”

“No, Kara vowed to never do that again after Alex. Hank had been with DEO for a long time. He was around during the initial phase, one of the scientists like Alex’s father that studied the enhancement and been involved in early experiments. Most of the scientists died in mysterious circumstances, but in addition to Hank’s illusion abilities, he had memory modification skill that kept him alive.”

Reign catches Maggie’s eye. “Sure this is what you want? I assumed you would want to learn about Alex.”

“I know Alex,” Maggie says.

“Just because Alex is charmed by your pretty smile doesn’t mean you know her.”

“I’d rather hear about you,” Maggie says through the blush she can’t suppress. “You say you’re the creation of pain and anger. Is that what brings you out?”

“If you want to be simplistic – yes.”

“Assume I don’t.”

“Then the better answer is that I manage Alex’s anger. See, I don’t get angry. I’m beyond that. In this form, the amygdala is suppressed, and blood flow to the pre-frontal cortex is maximized.”

“Hyper-rationalization,” Maggie says.

“Precisely. So when you try to bait me with jealousy about Alex’s so-called life or the fact that you’re in love with her, it’s all lost. I don’t care.”

“I’m not in love with Alex,” Maggie says. It’s reflective, slips out without thinking. _Is she?_ Maggie isn’t sure, but it’s certainly not an idea she wants Reign believing.

“Alex is my patient. I care for her. Quite a bit even. But it’s nothing more than that.”

“Disappointing,” Reign says.

Maggie clears her throat. “You never answered my question from before.”

“What question is that?”

“The people in the bunker. Did you kill them?”

“Right, that.” Reign stretches her arms out wide, an almost bored expression on her face. “No idea.”

“What?”

I don’t know,” Reign says. She articulates every word as though Maggie were a slow child. “It’s been removed.”

“Removed?” 

“Oh come on. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain. Alex has a made-up story in her head about those last days in the bunker. She doesn’t realize it, but I have the benefit of being beneath direct consciousness, so I can see it for what it is.”

“Which is…what exactly?” Maggie does not think she can get any more confused.

“A blank. A gap,” Reign says. She shrugs. “Whatever happened in that bunker, Hank didn’t want anyone to remember. It’s genius if you think about it.”

For several long seconds Maggie can only stare. Those missing memories, not suppressed at all, but removed entirely. Is that even possible? Would such a thing show up on a scan? Does this mean that time period is completely unrecoverable? Medically speaking, can it be proved?

“Well,” Reign says, standing. “I’d say this has been fun, but that would be a lie. I’ve upheld my part of the bargain. Hopefully, we won’t be seeing each other again. If we do, it probably means you’ve let Alex down.”

 

The choking grey lifts with excruciating slowness. Muted sound but scents turned up to high, aromas assaulting my nose and warping my nerves. I can feel the tears on my face even as I know no tears have fallen. I’ve been shunted off to a glass cage, frozen in time and space, watching without sound, hearing without sight. I feel her presence still in this body, like a lingering waft of perfume, letting me know that my house has been claimed, that I’m as much a visitor to this place as she is.

It’s Reign’s fault, I know, but everything I feel is aimed at Maggie. She knew. She let this happen. She made a deal with my personal devil and didn’t even tell me, didn’t think I had the insight to know it was happening. Every word, every detail stings.

 _I’m not in love with Alex_. She didn’t even have to think; her answer came automatically. _It’s nothing_. Not said: it’s an infatuation, a trick, a ruse to get a vulnerable patient to trust.

Worse, now she knows I lied about Hank. Yet somehow this is also her fault. She never should have gone behind my back. She shouldn’t have called Reign without telling me.

“Alex?” Maggie asks. “Are you ok?”

I am not ok. I am just returned to my body and I feel dizzy, sick to my stomach, and out of sorts.

“I’m fine.” The tiled floor stares back at me unsympathetically. “How long have we been down here?” 

“We just finished eating,” Maggie lies. I swallow my revulsion, my gullibility, and desire. I push it down to the basement, to the back room where Reign probably lurks in shadow, always watching and waiting for the opportunity to take the helm.

“Great,” I say. “I suppose it’s time for our session then.”


	26. Carol

It’s hard to be sure if I’m imagining a difference or not. But I think ever since our Reign session, Maggie has been distant. She spends the entire afternoon in the master bedroom, door closed. As much as I don’t want to be near her, don’t want to spend time with her, I can’t help passing in front of her door every so often. I even press my ear to the door at one point and hear only the low tone of my therapist as she talks on the phone. To whom I have no idea. Shame and fear of being caught prevent me from listening too long.

She dodges me after dinner and skips our session the next morning, suggesting that perhaps I would like the time away from her. More and more it seems that Reign struck a nerve suggesting she might be in love with me, and that Maggie is in active retreat. It hurts, and I hate myself for wanting to be near her in spite of her rejection. It’s in the midst of one of my early afternoon cycle of self-loathing that a car pulls into the driveway, engine backfiring loudly.

I’ve never seen the pale blue classic car in person, but I recognize it from the photo Hank carried in his wallet. Kara steps from the vehicle with a scarf wrapped around her head. She always did have a flair for the dramatic, even if Hank would have strangled her if he’d heard that shot to the engine.

From the edge of the back balcony I can only partially see what’s happening. Kara pulls her scarf down, linking it onto an oversized rolling bag. She stops, hands moving as she speaks with someone. It’s not until Kara steps out of the way that I can see the other figure, Maggie, escorting her in. It’s tempting to run inside, meet them in the hall, pull my sister in for a big hug. But that can’t be why Kara is here. If Maggie had any idea that the person who just arrived was Kara Danvers, I imagine her response would be quite different.

The unexpected arrival has thrown my usual routine into mayhem. Inside there’s the distant bustle of staff meeting the new person and Maggie giving a tour of the house. The thought of Kara trying to keep a straight face as a stranger offers her a tour of the Danvers home is, once again, almost enough for me to leave my post. Instead I content myself with imagining the encounter.

The sun creates rings of black around the edges of my vision, kaleidoscope patterns in bright red and yellow behind my eyelids as it warms my skin.

“Alex?”

My breath catches in my throat at Maggie’s warm but uncertain voice. I didn’t even hear her approaching. Even more surprising, she’s not alone. I must have fallen asleep. In my sunlit eyes colors and shapes shift but I would recognize my baby sister through any level of distortion. I hope my disorientation at being surprised is covering for any accidental signs of recognition.

“Huh?” I respond.

“You may have been wondering why we haven’t chatted lately,” Maggie says. “I’ve been preparing for a visitor.” A bit hesitantly Maggie gestures to Kara.

“Alex, I’d like you to meet Carol Kent. Carol is going to be joining us for the next several weeks, assisting me and you as we prepare for trial.”

“What?” Up close I can see that Kara is wearing glasses and she’s straightened her usually wavy hair, pulling it tightly into a bun. The overall effect isn’t much different, but it does change the way she moves, retracting her confidence and making her seem more…human.

“Hi Alex,” Carol says, extending a hand. I’m not going to shake hands with my own sister, nor would Maggie expect me to welcome a stranger, so I simply turn away.

Maggie clears her throat.

“Carol is going to get settled,” she says, a bit louder than strictly necessary, but undoubtedly trying to regain some sense of authority after the partial brush-off. “But I’d like us, all three of us, to sit down after dinner and chat. An introductory session.”

I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice or my eyes not to give something away, so I fixate on the waving pines that line the property.

“Alex?” Maggie prompts.

“Sure,” I say. “Dinner.” I count to five hundred before allowing myself to glance back. Both Maggie and Carol have vanished.

It feels unusually quiet inside. The interior of the house seems dingy, dark compared to the bright outdoors. Fading colors and cracks jump out as I see my home through the eyes of someone arriving for the first time in years. There’s a half lived-in appearance, framed photos that are obviously old, pre-Dark Years and worn cloth covers on much of the first-floor furniture. Up the open staircase, a series of pictures yellowing at the edges depict the Danvers family through the years.

For months I’ve walked these steps scarcely giving the décor a second look. But today my eye is drawn to the final in the series, a photo from approximately eight years ago featuring my mother with an arm around myself and Kara. Kara beams at the camera, her signature optimism on full display. She’s younger here, evidence of lingering baby fat on her cheeks, and blonde hair cascading freely across her shoulders, but for anyone used to looking beyond the surface, the resemblance is unmistakable.

With a sharp glance around, I snag the offending frame from the wall, tucking it beneath my shirt. My mind zips through the house, where else might Kara’s past be evident? Photos in the master bedroom would have been cleared away after my mother’s death, but I’ll need to do a sweep of the remaining common areas.

I shuffle quickly through the house, trying not to look like an interloper, but fortunately the cleaning staff appear to have left for the day and there is no sign of Maggie. I remove a couple more pictures that show Kara, although I’m fairly certain Maggie wouldn’t have seen these unless she went snooping through desk drawers, which doesn’t seem her style.

I can’t bring myself to throw the pictures away so I tuck them into my drawer beneath a stack of shirts. Maggie’s door is slightly ajar, meaning she is probably down in the guest room. From the second floor landing two sets of muffled voices can be heard. I duck into the guest bathroom to wait them out. Finally, I hear Maggie’s purposeful stride retreat down the hallway. In the guest room Kara sits on the floor, unpacking a large suitcase. She acknowledges me with a wink.

“Took you long enough.”

“It didn’t seem wise to have a family reunion in front of my therapist,” I retort. “Also, you aren’t supposed to be here. What happened?”

“I had to check on you,” Kara says.

“It’s dangerous here.”

“Right, in a secured house with restricted visitors,” Kara says rolling her eyes. “Sounds dangerous.”

“I thought Hank was taking you somewhere safe.” It’s best to ignore Kara when she gets sarcastic.

“Yeah, he confined me to the Fortress. Let me tell you, that got old fast. Especially on my own.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

Kara shrugs. “In a way he gave me the idea. Told me about Dr. Sawyer. Honestly this is just as safe as the Fortress, only here we can be together.”

She’s right. Sort of. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” I say. “I mean…I’m under the microscope here. Everyone near me is at risk. What if they figure out that you…What if it’s us being near each other that caused…” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I only know that right now I’m a solo target, and I intend to keep it that way. No one can find out about Kara. It would complicate the narrative too much, bring even more attention to the gaps Maggie is beginning to uncover.

Kara’s perpetual grin fades and I see something I’ve only seen on my baby sister’s face once before. Fear.

“I can’t do it, Alex,” she says. “I can’t not know what’s happening. It’s been excruciating. I get updates once a week if I’m lucky. The news was always so vague, so hopeless. I had to see you. I had to find out who was working with you in the house. I couldn’t let you face this alone.”

I wave my hand and blink back a few tears. “I’m fine. Maggie’s been great. I mean Dr. Sawyer.”

The crinkle above Kara’s right eye deepens as she turns serious. “Do you trust her?”

A half-laugh escapes my lips. Since Maggie has been here I’ve gone from stiff-arming her away to helpless to resist. She knows everything, all I intended to tell her and more. It’s no longer a matter of whether I can trust her, it’s about hoping I can.

“I think so. Do you?”

Kara releases a deep breath. “I think so.”

“Good.” I lean in and squeeze my sister tight. A mistake in retrospect as she returns the squeeze and I’m reminded how strong she is.

“It’s so good to see you sis.”

“You too,” I say. Her hug is like being wrapped in a weighted blanket, being surrounded by a shield of warmth. Nothing can touch us like this, together. We don’t have to speak for the ability to know her goes beyond mind reading, beyond language into something akin to shared instinct. But as soon as we separate the fear returns, the incredible danger into which she has placed herself made obvious again.

“Kara, I love having you here…But you need to leave. You need to stay away from the spotlight.”

“No one looks twice at an assistant,” Kara retorts, that stubborn tone I know so well adding an edge to her voice. “In this position, I have access to all of your records. Don’t you want to know what Dr. Sawyer’s plan is? Aren’t you tired of being in the dark on all this?”

“Not really,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”

Kara freezes, blinking slowly. “There’s nothing you want to live for?” she asks. “Are you just going to give up that easy?” She rises, backing away, her body curling protectively around her chest as if I’d hit her. “That’s not my sister. That’s not you. You’re a fighter Alex. You’d fight.” Her throat bobs up and down. “Tell me you have nothing to live for,” she demands.

“I…”

I can’t meet her eye. I’m doing this for her, can’t she see that? There is no easy escape and in a choice between my life and hers, I will choose myself every time. Happily walk to the gallows knowing I am leaving the better of us behind. She has so much more to offer the world; lightness where inside me there is dark. Hope, joy, charm, in such quantity that it’s a miracle I wasn’t more jealous of her as a moody teen. The truth is I’m a distraction for her, keeping her from achieving the heights of her potential. Without me, she can move forward.

What do I have to live for? A remarkable sister. A surrogate father in Hank, the most protective force in my life, even more so than Kara. _And Maggie_. Right. And a woman I crave who doesn’t care for me at all. Who is disgusted by my desire. But she initiated that kiss in the library, so there must be something there. That infernal spark of hope that refuses to die. What do I have to live for indeed.

“I hope for the best,” I say. “But I’m prepared for the worst.”

Kara straightens her posture with a nod. “Ok,” she says. “It’s not great. But I can work with that.” She looks me over, probing for potential weakness. Finding none she appears satisfied.

“Obviously we can’t seem too familiar,” Kara says.

“Obviously.”

“I’ll do what I can to make it…not awkward.”

Shit. I haven’t even thought about the logistics of my sister attending therapy. Of knowing who I am, seeing that I’m…

“Can you stay away?” I blurt. “Like from my sessions?”

“That will seem a bit fishy. I’m supposed to be helping out. Besides, I already know your darkest secrets,” Kara adds with a smirk. She glances towards the door, her message clear. I’ve been in here too long, we both have to prepare for dinner.

Kara squeezes my hand gently. “See you soon,” she says.

Drily I swallow, sneaking up the stairs on auto-pilot. How the hell am I going to get through this?

 

_Well that went better than expected_.

Sure, Alex regressed a bit in her cold introduction to Carol, but all in all, Maggie is willing to call the encounter a success. After all, there was no temper tantrum, no complete freezing out, and Alex did acknowledge the expectation that she would join them for dinner. Butterflies fill Maggie’s stomach. Now not one but two unknowns. Hopefully a bit of the summary lecture Maggie provided will sink in prior to their evening session. Otherwise, it will be quite the experience for the grad student.

Idly Maggie flips through her closet. She’s never changed for dinner but the urge to be a bit more formal for their guest is tempting. _Their guest_. Maggie shakes her head. Wrong, Sawyer. She’s the guest. Her and Carol. This is Alex’s house alone, regardless of how easily she can imagine her and Alex turning it into their home.

Ah, to have a _home_. Not just a residence or address for mail but a place to return to again and again, to feel welcome and loved. First, she’d buy new deck furniture since Alex likes to sit out there so much. Then clean up the sunroom, add some bookshelves in there, probably convert the messy corner of the library into a real office, and move Alex’s stuff into the master bedroom, which could use a bit more personality. There’s easily room for both of their clothes in the walk-in closet, but Maggie wouldn’t say no to re-doing the master bath…

“Stop it Sawyer,” Maggie whispers to herself. She’s not here to play house with her patient. Carol’s timing, as inconvenient as it feels, is probably for the best, since it will force Maggie to keep her distance, act as a reminder that people are watching.

Unconsciously Maggie’s hand settles on a dark blue and yellow checked flannel. It’s a good casual shirt, and one that Alex once told her brings out the twinkle in her eye. That’s not why she’s choosing it, of course. More for fact that it will reinforce her familiarity to Alex, who may be feeling vulnerable around the new member of the team.

With a nod Maggie buttons the shirt, brushing out her hair so the curls fall into place. She frowns at her reflection in the mirror – why can’t she be prettier, like Alex? Or at least vivacious and funny? Why does she have to be so serious, so mindful, so freaking… _appropriate_ , all the time.

The mirror agrees with her, and in the reflective glass Maggie sees two of herself, one that turns and walks down the stairs, greeting Alex with a kiss. _I’ve fallen in love with you_ , that version will say. _I’m in love with you, Alex Danvers, and I don’t want to hide it anymore_. _Let’s run away from all this, let’s be together and the world will never get us down_. That version of Maggie floats away into the sunset, happy and free in a way that Maggie never has been.

But the other Maggie doesn’t move. Other Maggie sighs, and smooths down the front of her shirt before grabbing a notepad and pen. She will sit down to a cordial dinner with her patient and assistant. Other Maggie will try everything she can to recover the lost memories that may or may not exonerate Alex Danvers from a lifetime in prison. Other Maggie will shove her feelings down deep, lock them away so they can’t interfere in the delicate process of therapy and of trying to help the patient with whom she is so desperately in love that if she thinks about it too long, she can’t breathe.


	27. The Stranger

“I’m really thrilled to have you here,” Maggie says. Carol smiles, a bit nervously, Maggie thinks, but that’s to be expected. Theory is about to become reality for the ambitious grad student.

“There’s no sense beating about the bush,” Maggie continues. “So I’d like to jump in with a session this evening. But there are a couple things you need to know before then.”

“Alright,” Carol says. Quickly she pushes her glasses up her nose and fumbles for a notepad, looking up expectantly.

“You met the subject, Alex Danvers. She’s really quite remarkable, although she doesn’t give a great first impression.” Maggie can’t help but smile a little. “I have no doubt if you’re patient she will warm to you in time. For tonight I’d like you primarily to observe and assist me with notes as I want to try something a bit…unorthodox.” Maggie shifts a bit as she collects her thoughts. Carol’s pen hovers just above the paper.

“Alex suffers from dissociative identity disorder,” Maggie says. Immediately the pen begins scratching out notes. Maggie tries to tune it out, pretending she is reciting information in front of the court. “This condition actually pre-dates her time in the bunker, originating from a major illness in college. Her alternate persona refers to itself as Reign. Reign exhibits heightened aggression, need for control, and compulsion to dominate as compared to Alex. But there’s something unusual about Alex’s alternate that goes beyond standard dissociative identity.”

The scratching pauses. “What’s that?”

“The recovery from her illness was induced via genetic modification. The triggering of the alternate persona appears linked to the triggering of the modifying proteins, meaning in her Reign form, she is…enhanced. Stronger, faster, other supernatural abilities that you and I lack as ordinary humans.”

“Is that possible?” Carol asks.

“DEO records indicate it is. Part of tonight’s session will be obtaining evidence to confirm, but regardless, it appears there may have been as many as three other enhanced humans present in the bunker.”

“Three?!?” Carol’s eyes pop and she pushes the glass up her nose again.

“I know,” Maggie laughs. “This case is incredible. Borderline unbelievable. Yes, three. The origin of Alex’s genetic modification was her adoptive sister, Kara Danvers, also in the bunker. Separately a man named Hank Henshaw that worked for the same company, and finally the Danvers father, long believed dead but actually living under the moniker ‘Superman’ made his way into the bunker shortly before the massacre.”  

“Oh my gosh. Superman? Why would he go into a bunker? Did they find him yet? Obviously he must have done it!”

“All good questions,” Maggie says. “And it’s possible that any of the other enhanced humans are to blame instead of Alex. But without them around, extremely difficult to prove.”

“Can’t Alex tell us what happened?”

“Hank Henshaw’s enhancements allow him to manipulate perception and memory. Reign told me that he has removed the memories from Alex’s mind.”

“And Alex?” Carol is breathless, literally leaning forward on the edge of her seat.

“She claims to not remember,” Maggie says. “I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Wow.” Carol collapses back into the chair. “What are you going to do?”

“In tonight’s session, I’d like to try accessing Alex’s subconscious beyond Reign.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hypnotherapy,” Maggie says. “I want to see if the memories can still be accessed in some way, but it will be a delicate endeavor and I need you to be aware of Reign since the possibility she could emerge is non-negligible.”

“Has Reign ever hurt you?” More curiosity in the question than fear, Maggie notes. Likely Carol can’t quite wrap her head around the more incredible aspects of the case.

“Not physically,” Maggie says. “But she can be cruel in other ways.” Maggie’s voice wavers for a second, the memory of Reign standing over her in the kitchen, just as powerful as when it happened. _You want to know why no one loves you? Why you’re always alone? It’s because deep down, you know you this is what you deserve. Why should anyone waste their time, when even you don’t want to be you?_

The backs of her eyes burn and Maggie blinks rapidly. When her vision clears, Carol has her head turned discretely at an angle. Maggie clears her throat.

“I’ve left a binder with the full case notes on the dresser,” Maggie says. “If you get the chance to read through before dinner that will be helpful, but it is not required.”

“Thank you,” Carol says.

Maggie offers a tired smile in return. She really ought to take a quick nap before dinner. It’s going to be a trying evening. However, back in the privacy of her room, the list of things to do, follow-ups, leads won’t leave her alone. Five weeks, she reminds herself. She can sleep in five weeks, once she knows she has done everything possible to help Alex. Maggie sets aside the many lingering questions for now. Her time is best spent preparing for tonight’s session and keeping personal feelings for Alex at bay.

After a quiet dinner in which even Thomas seems unusually subdued, they move to the sunroom. Evening light glows orange against the hanging plants, giving it the unearthly appearance of another planet. Maggie and Carol take up position on the faded sofa, while Alex curls up on the loveseat opposite, surly expression on her face as she refuses to make eye contact with either one of them.

“We are going to try something different tonight,” Maggie says. “Have you ever done guided meditation?”

Alex rolls her eyes. “Yeah, my college cross country coach was super into that crap.”

“Well we’re going to give it a shot. I want you to really try. Can you promise me that?”

Alex scowls but sits up a bit straighter. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get comfortable and close your eyes,” Maggie says. Alex slouches down into the corner of the oversized chair, squeezing her eyes tight before relaxing into a more natural pose. Maggie takes a breath to center herself. Hold an even tone, speak slow and clear, give time for Alex to respond. Maggie watches Alex closely, waiting for her breathing to settle into a steady pattern before she speaks again.

“Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Follow my instructions. Can you do that, Alex?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, let’s take several deep breaths together.” Slowly Maggie walks through the exercises until Alex’s voice has the fuzzy quality of a person about to fall asleep. Carol sits stiffly as if any movement might ruin the process.

“Good,” Maggie says in a low voice. _Stay calm Sawyer_. “Now I want you to imagine a hallway. You’re walking down this hallway. What do you see?”

There’s a long pause during which Maggie fears she might have put her patient to sleep.

“It’s dark,” Alex mutters. “But there are portraits on the wall with lights. Thick carpet of red and gold in a criss-crossing pattern.”

“Tell me about the portraits.”

“Gold-framed. Oil paintings of people.” Alex frowns. “They seem to be people. When I look at them they change to landscapes. Pastoral stuff.”

“Do any of them stand out?”

“No. But one’s missing. The wallpaper is faded where it used to be.”

Ah, the mysteries of the brain, Maggie thinks. “Keeping moving down the hall. What else do you see?”

“A door.”

“Where?”

“Straight ahead. But also one to the left.”

“Pick one and go through.”

“The center one is locked. I’m afraid to open the other one.”

“Why?”

“The shadows are slipping out from underneath,” Alex says. “It’s going to be dark in there.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Maggie says. “Try the door. Does it open?”

“Yes.” Alex inhales sharply. “It’s so dark.”

“Feel your way around using the wall.”

“I’m trying. But the wall keeps moving, it wants me to go to the center of the room.”

“Don’t resist then.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Alex breaths deeply, her face relaxed, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids.

“What’s happening?” Maggie asks.

Eyes still closed, Alex begins to laugh, a deep laugh that originates from the bottom of her rib cage, cascading up until her eyes flare open. Dark eyes dart from Maggie to Carol, fixing on the unknown assistant. The corner of Reign’s lip curls upwards.

“This is new,” she says. “And who are you? Or rather,” she adds with a glance up and down, “who are you pretending to be? Ever the angel I’m sure. The perfect this or that. Here to rub it in my face? Your perfection and my ruin? Ever the goody-two-shoes?”

“I…” Carol stutters, glasses slipping down her face as she ducks her head and cheeks flare red.

“Don’t bother. Lies bore me. You bore me.” Reign turns her attention to Maggie. “Dr. Sawyer. How do you disappoint today?”

“We’re not here for you Reign. Leave us be.” Anger and compassion split her tone. For as cruel as Reign can be, she’s part of Alex. She can’t be all bad.

Reign smirks. “And yet you found me. Still pining after Alex, are you? She told me about that incident in the library. I understand she made you a _very_ intriguing offer.”

You need to go,” Maggie says.

“Oh come now, Dr. Sawyer. Or perhaps if I call you _Maggie_ like she does you’ll be more willing.” Reign leans across the small space, fingers tracing the edge of Maggie’s jaw before she falls back into the loveseat with a grin. “You’re not still denying who you are?”

“I’m not,” Maggie says. Reign feeds off antagonism. She’s a concentrated version of Alex’s stubbornness, but somewhere underneath her power plays there is an Alex that let Maggie get this far. If she can find that piece of Reign connected to Alex, she can break through this level of subconscious to the next, the one that not even her dissociative identity can access.

“I want to help you,” Maggie says.

“Such arrogance!”

“You’re in a tight spot,” Maggie continues. “You’ve had to be the strong one that kept it together for Alex, for your bunker. But there’s a big difference now.”

“I know,” Reign says. “They might kill me, or at least lock me away forever, all because I’m a survivor.”

“They might,” Maggie agrees. “But it’s no longer you against the world. I’m here to keep that from happening. Carol’s here to keep that from happening. We’re on your side, Alex. I –” Maggie’s voice chokes. Reign cocks her head to the side.

“You what?”

“I need to get Alex through this,” Maggie says. “You told me once that you were created to protect Alex. Help me do that.”

Reign’s recessed shadow eyes regard Maggie with sudden interest.

“Alright, Maggie Sawyer. I’ll give you this one.” She raises a single finger, sly grin forming on her lips. “But I’d recommend in the future, taking the center door. There’s a reason my room contains so much darkness. And neither you nor her are ready for that.”

Reign adjusts herself into the nook of the chair. Dark eyes fix on Maggie and with a slow exhale, close.

Carol appears on the verge of tears. “Those things she said… How could she know anything about me?” she whispers.

“Reign is extremely perceptive,” Maggie says. “She has a particular skill for identifying weakness, insecurity, and capitalizing on it.”

“It’s not true…is it?” Carol asks. “That’s not what Alex thinks? About me? About you?”

“Not all of it,” Maggie says. A silence as Carol looks away.

“Now what?” Carol asks in a small voice. In the loveseat, Alex breaths evenly, returned to her meditative state.

“Now we continue,” Maggie says.

 

I’ve never seen this hallway before, but it’s oddly familiar, like the movie set of a gothic horror flick. Dim display lights provide just enough illumination to make my way down the narrow passage without bumping into anything. Heavy frames lean inwards at the top, faces of old men leering and older women with stern expressions, judging. I think I should know these people, but the paint strokes change when I pause, greys becoming greens and browns turning to yellow, faces vanishing into a pasture or lake, idyllic images of places I’ve never been.

The hall ends abruptly in a white door, but the handle doesn’t budge. A door used to be here on the left, but has since vanished from sight, plastered over cheaply. I’m reminded of a prank at school, where the new principal’s door was covered with corkboard containing fliers for this and that, effectively making the room disappear. Behind me the lights have faded and it’s dark.

_Look for a key_.

Of course. Instinctively I turn to the closest painting. The small silver key rests on the lower edge of the frame. This portrait remains long enough for me to see the young smiling face of a blonde woman I should know, but don’t. Her image fades to nothing, leaving the gilded frame empty save for the faded blue wallpaper. A voice urges me on. With the key in hand the white door opens, lights flipping on and a crowd yelling ‘surprise!’ as everyone jumps from behind the furniture.

My parents are on the far left, followed by Sam and friends from college, then DEO comprising those on the far right. The image freezes as I realize it’s nothing more than a photo in my hands. Piles of textbooks mark a pathway behind the two narrow twin beds slid together. Sam gazes up from her studies with a smile.

“Long time, stranger,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here for quite awhile.”

“Where am I?”

“Don’t be silly,” she says with a laugh. “They told you all about it during orientation. I assume you took notes.”

“That’s always been more your thing.”

“Better make it yours. The others are waiting in the back.” Sam gestures over her shoulder, gaze returning to the open textbook in her lap.

“It was good to see you,” I say. Slowly I move past the double closet of cheap plywood that Sam and I tossed off the roof our final day of college.

“Hey Al!” Sam calls. “Don’t forget to tell them it was me.”

“What?”

“When they ask what happened.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“None of it’s fair, silly. But we all do our part.”

“What’s my part?”

A bell rings and simultaneously all of the classroom doors swing open, the crowd pulling me away from Sam. I’m swept into a classroom filled with strangers.

“Psst,” someone hisses. Kara winks at me.

“Are you you?” she asks. “Or are you the stranger?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Kara huffs. “I’m not like that.”

“We all have a stranger,” I reply. “It doesn’t take fancy blood to make that happen.”

“Whatever, killer. If I were you I’d hold on tight.”

The seat lurches forward, wheels clacking against the track as the roller coaster begins its ascent. My hands stick to the desk, painfully attached to the micro-thorns that coat its surface. I grit my teeth against the pain, trying to mentally prepare for the moment I have to rip the skin away and exit. The ride leaves my hands raw.

“Alex Danvers! You have been deemed a menace to society!” The official rushes up, raising a firearm up to the level of my head.

“No!” I scream.

The starting gun fires into the air and I’m off, running with elbows out to create space, to get some separation from the hoard that breathes clouds of fog in the late autumn air. The crowd cheers indiscriminately, clapping for all the runners, regardless of school. The white line that marks the race course continues ahead, but through the thinning crowd I spot a familiar head of dark curly hair. Spectators part as I exit the race. Maggie’s black trench coat falls to just above her knees as she holds her arms across her body.

“Maggie?” The form doesn’t turn. Still breathing hard, I wait a few seconds before trying again. “Maggie?” She starts with surprise, eyes widening and face falling into that perfect smile with the lopsided dimple.

“I thought you had a race,” she says.

“I left. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m wherever you want me to be.”

“Except one place.”

“That’s true.” Maggie points down the hill. “Have you seen this?”

At the base of the gentle slope is a small white-washed building of brick.

“What is it?”

“You tell me,” Maggie says. “I’m not really here.”

“I know,” I say. “But will you come with me?” Maggie nods, fingers intertwining with my own. My heart pounds as I knock on the door. It opens immediately, but Hank’s large body blocks any view of the interior.

“Hello Alex,” he says. “I’ve been expecting you.” Maggie’s hand releases mine as I enter the subdued bunker. Shouts echo distantly, our footfalls just out of sync thumping like an irregular heartbeat. Kara lies in a heap, shaking violently, dry sobs wracking her body.

“They’re all gone,” she whispers. “Every single one, the life flickered out. It’s dark and they’re not coming back, not ever.”

“I told you. There’s a stranger in all of us.” From the corner Reign glowers. I don’t know if I’m speaking to her or to Kara. “We are all capable of horrible things. But that doesn’t make us irredeemable.”

_Well, maybe some of us_.

“No?” Kara sniffles.

“No. I promise you, I will make this right.” I nod at Hank, watching us silently. Hank crouches to our level, placing a single, giant hand on each of our heads, drawing away the poison, freeing us from pain.

“Just relax,” he says. “You may feel a slight pinch.”


	28. The Art of Disguise

Now that Alex all but confirmed that Hank removed the memories of the massacre, it’s more important than ever to figure out what happened to Hank Henshaw and Superman, Maggie thinks. The question is whether Alex gave up the memories in order to maintain faith in her father, or in her mentor. If only Kara Danvers were around to be questioned. For as many people that survived the massacre, there is a frustrating lack of available witnesses.

For her part Alex seems to have taken the revelation well. Likely some part of her always suspected that the memory loss was voluntary. But why, why, why? The word circles around Maggie’s head like a riddle refusing to be solved. If she could describe Alex in one word it would be independent, so what must these men have on her to make her give up so much, to risk so much?

_Focus, Sawyer._ First, Maggie needs to determine whether it’s Hank Henshaw or Jerimiah Danvers lying in the morgue. The blood sample obtained while Alex was in trance will help confirm the truth, as well as prove if Alex has the genetic enhancement that would give her access to superhuman abilities. Julia Walker from the morgue will be pleased to have the comparative sample in hand.

For her part, Maggie isn’t quite sure why she asked Carol to go grab some notes while she took the sample, but until she knows the graduate student a bit better, she’d rather exercise caution. But she does invite Carol to join her for the trip to the morgue the following day. Carol pales at the thought, but gamely agrees to accompany Maggie. Poor girl really took the lashing from Reign personally. What did Reign even say about her? Something about always-perfect, putting on airs? Pretty easy criticism to level at someone Carol’s age, but appears to have struck a nerve. Hopefully Carol can shake it off.

With a final toss, Maggie rolls over in the big bed and talks herself through the guided breathing in the hopes it will lead to a dreamless night.

 

The knock on the door is so quiet I think I must have imagined it. But when it repeats ten seconds later I slip out of bed, cracking the door. Kara shoves her way inside. The glow from the window catches her eye and I can tell she’s been crying. Guilt rises in my throat. A dreamlike memory of the accusations leveled at her earlier.

“Kara, I’m so sorr–”

She cuts me off with a tight squeeze.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. Her cheek dampens the top of my shirt. “I need you to know that you’re my hero, you’re the only one I want to impress. And here, this whole time, I had no idea you felt so…trapped.”

“I asked for it,” I say. “I chose it.”

“I can help you escape,” Kara says. Her eyes widen as the idea takes hold. “Dr. Sawyer would never suspect me. We can get you out of that monitor, away from here –”

“Kara,” I interrupt. “I can’t. I’ve left this house a dozen times, but you know what happens every single time, why I keep coming back? I realize have nowhere else to go. I’m a wanted person, Kara. My photo has been in all the papers, people recognize me. Around town, it’s ok, I can joyride every now and again especially when Maggie’s there. But on my own, people get nervous. I see their hands go for a cell phone and I know it’s time to run. I’m tired of running. I have to see this through.”

Kara’s face falls.

“Don’t worry, little one,” I say, bringing my taller if younger sister back into the hug. “Maggie is working really hard. And with you helping her, there might be a chance.”

“I’ll make sure there is,” Kara says, voice muffled against my chest. She raises her head. “I’ll make sure _Maggie_ does her best for you.”

“What’s with the sudden sass?” Kara wipes her nose revealing a small grin.

“I’ll skip past the fact that you always refer to Dr. Sawyer as _Maggie_ ,” Kara says, drawing out the last word. “And point out that every time you say her name, you smile.”

“I do not!”

“Oh yes you do!” Kara counters. “Maggie!”

I huff, but even I can feel the corners of my mouth turning upwards as I do so.

“Ok fine,” I say. “I’ve become very fond of her. But it’s not worth getting all excited about. She doesn’t like me. Not…like that.” Releasing the truth into the air sobers my temporary high. I let myself flop onto the bed, deflated. Kara flops down beside me, that stubborn crease evident in the center of her forehead.

“Alex, I don’t want to sound insensitive given the situation, but are you crazy?” Kara asks. “Like, legitimately delusional? Because I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I can tell that woman is over the moon for you.”

“Yeah, right. No wonder I didn’t notice with her spending all day hiding in her room and avoiding me.”

“Dr. Sawyer spends every waking minute thinking about you,” Kara says. “She is working herself to the bone entirely on your behalf. Do you honestly think she’s trying to hide from you when you’re not in session?”

“I mean…” Kinda, yeah, although it sounds stupid when Kara puts it like that.

“She’s working,” Kara says. “She’s researching and writing her report for the court. Tomorrow I have to go to the freaking morgue with her, because she believes there is more to be learned from the fifty-eight frozen bodies there. She thinks something the police might have overlooked can support your story. Dr. Sawyer is trying to keep you from going to prison, Alex. And when you’re not around, trust me, she’s still thinking about you.”

“Great, she’s good at her job,” I grumble. “Doesn’t mean there’s anything more.”

Kara snorts and the pillow nails me in the face before I even realize she’s grabbed it.

“You horndog,” Kara says, wrestling me down.

“Brat!”

“Bossypants!”

“Suck-up!”

Using Kara’s own momentum, I let myself roll and shove with my legs. She strikes the floor with a throaty laugh, tumbling loudly.

A knock at the door causes us both to freeze.

“Alex?” Maggie asks. “Are you ok? I heard a crash.”

Frantically I gesture for Kara to duck behind the bed as I pop the door open a few inches.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I wish I hadn’t opened the door for something about Maggie’s scent at night is particularly enticing. Perhaps it’s the lack of perfume allowing her natural odor to come through, but the waft of something vaguely spicy causes my voice to catch. “I got up for some water and tripped, that’s all.”

“Ok,” Maggie says. She doesn’t seem entirely convinced but has no follow up. “Well good night then.”

Kara is making kissy faces when I turn around. “Get out of here!” I hiss. “You were the one who said we shouldn’t act too familiar!”

“I’m leaving!”

I grab her for one last embrace and then she slips into the dark hallway, where the only noise that can be heard is the ever-present ticking of the old grandfather clock.  

 

Carol almost makes it down the hall soundlessly, but the creaky top stair gives her away. In retrospect it seems obvious. Carol is pretty and Alex is…well, if it didn’t create a minefield of ethical issues, Maggie would be in line for Alex too. The giggles and crashing from Alex’s room are enough to get the idea. Maggie isn’t quite sure why she feels the need to torture herself by catching Carol in the act of slipping back to her room. She’s not sure if she admires the young woman’s gumption to land in Alex’s bed on her first night or if she’s furiously jealous.

_Look on the bright side_ , she thinks, _the object of your affections is officially taken._

Any worries Maggie had about jealousy are quickly dispatched the next morning. During the car ride to National City, Carol proves such affable company that even the thought of holding a grudge melts away. Maggie thinks about offering the young woman a warning about diving into a relationship with so little knowledge, but it smacks of paternalism. Carol is smart enough to make her own decisions.

At the morgue, they only have to wait a few minutes before the attendant emerges.

“Dr. Sawyer,” Julia says, with quite a bit more warmth than the first time.

“Ms. Walker,” Maggie returns. “This is my assistant, Carol. If it’s alright I’d like her to join us as another set of eyes.”

“Sure, we’ll just need you to sign in,” Julia says. As Carol turns to jot down her information, Maggie palms the small vial of Alex’s blood over to Julia. It’s unnecessarily dramatic to hide the transaction from the other morgue staff who wouldn’t think twice about such an exchange, but this testing is off-the-book, and Maggie would prefer to avoid any awkward questions.

Julia leads them straight to the drawer containing Hank Henshaw. Carol pushes her glasses up her nose and looks everywhere except for the unopened body bag. She gasps as Julia pulls the fabric aside to reveal the face of Hank Henshaw. Maggie bends over, examining the face closely. That same icy sheen coats the skin, granting it a surreal glow.

Julia clears her throat, holding out a box of latex gloves. Maggie slips one on and gently prods against the cheek. Skin moves stiffly, and if she weren’t touching the body she might not notice, but there’s a discrepancy, an offset, something not quite right. The effect is most noticeable around the nose. As she stares the dark man’s color seems to change. Maggie blinks, trying to discern whether it’s a trick of the light or not.

In her concentrated state she only belatedly picks up Carol’s rapid descent into hyperventilation. Fortunately, Julia is there to help the blonde to the ground, her face pale as she leans over, forehead just off the floor.

“Are you ok?” Maggie asks. Truthfully, it’s a bit frustrating to have the distraction. She feels on the verge of _something_ , but etiquette now dictates she show some concern for her assistant.

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” Carol mutters. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”

“It’s fine,” Maggie says. “We’re done here.” Gratefully, Carol rises to her feet, leaving without a second look.

“She’s awfully tender,” Julia remarks.

“She’s new. When do you expect to have the test results?” Maggie asks.

“Give me a day,” Julia says. “Trust me. I’m as curious as you are.”

“Thank you.”

In the lobby, Carol appears mostly recovered from her shock. She bites her lip with embarrassment as Maggie approaches.

“Don’t even worry about it,” Maggie says. “Ready to go?”

Carol’s brow furrows. “We drove all the way out here for that?”

“Yep. Why was there anything else you wanted to do in the city?” Maggie suddenly feels stupid for not having asked sooner. Quite possibly Carol has family or friends in the area. Or a family friend.

“Now that you mention it, I would like to check in with Alex’s attorney,” Maggie says. “I understand you know him?”

“Um…” Carol ducks her head. “Yeah, but only kind of. I mean he knows my parents,” she stutters. “I don’t really know him much at all.”

“He is a good person to get to know for this case,” Maggie says. Carol offers a wan smile.

The receptionist waves Maggie directly through to the office in back.

“Dr. Sawyer,” he says, rising from his seat with characteristic charm. “And your new assistant I presume?”

“Carol Kent,” Maggie replies, without thinking. “Of course, you knew that.”

He nods at Carol, a bit tightly, Maggie thinks. She will have to ask Carol exactly how they know each other. She’s starting to get the impression it may not be as friendly as advertised.

“What brings you into town?” the attorney asks.

“Showing Carol the ropes,” Maggie says. “Visit to the morgue and now you.”

“The morgue? I thought that was finished.”

“Yes, but I’ve always found it helpful to ground myself with concrete images of the people that come up in session,” Maggie says. The lie comes easier than anticipated. “I thought Carol might appreciate that opportunity.”

“And did you?” he asks Carol.

“It was…”

“In retrospect I realize I may have rushed you,” Maggie says. Carol sighs gratefully at the escape.

“Ah.” He glances at his watch.

“I apologize for not making an appointment,” Maggie says. “We will show ourselves out.”

“Very good. And Carol?”

“Yes sir?”

“Stay out of trouble.” The tone is difficult to decipher. Perhaps he’s a family friend by way of having gotten Carol out of some juvenile scrape. That would certainly account for the protectively cautious air as well as Carol’s increased timidity around him.

Outside Carol releases a deep breath. “I hate it when he’s mad at me,” she confesses.

“He’s mad at you? Why?”

“It’s just worry is all,” Carol says. “He thinks working on this case will be too much pressure for me. You know, with the media attention and all that.”

“I see.” There definitely must be some delinquency in Carol’s past. Something minor and probably sealed but that an anxious family friend would worry over. Probably best not to pry, Maggie thinks.

 

With both Maggie and Kara out all morning, I have nothing better to do than terrorize the cleaning staff. I’m out of sorts this morning, and I bang drawers and make a mess of the kitchen before I realize the source of my ugly mood. Kara has been here less than twenty-four hours and it already feels like she is Maggie’s new friend. There is no awkwardness of patient-therapist or normal person-accused criminal to disrupt their natural camaraderie.

_You’re jealous, Danvers._

“Sonofabitch,” I mutter to myself as yet another yolk splits prematurely. I toss the pan into the sink and pull a clean one down. For as much as I love Kara why can’t I have some things that are just mine? Why is it always so much easier for her?

Butter sizzles on the warming pan and I ready myself for the next egg. Quick tap and a perfect one-handed crack. Maybe it’s a sign this day is about to turn around.

Maggie’s car pulls in before lunch and shortly after Kara enters the library where I’ve barricaded myself.

“What do you want?”

“Alex, what does Maggie know about Hank?” Kara asks, glancing around quickly.

“I dunno, that he trained me in the bunker, that he was good to us.”

“And maybe that he’s alive?” Kara adds.

“No. No way. She got Reign to admit he’s a super but nothing else.”

“Well, be prepared for this to all fall apart,” Kara whispers. “She went to the morgue specifically to examine…that body. She was looking very closely.”

“What?”

“I don’t think she saw anything,” Kara says. “I tried to distract her, but she’s definitely suspicious.”

“Shit.”

“I know. And then we went to visit him because ‘it would be good for you to know Alex’s attorney.’”

“Ha.”

“Ha, yourself! Do you have any idea how awkward that was for me?”

I shrug. It’s kind of nice not to be the fuck-up for once. “You put yourself here, kiddo.”

“To help you!”

“Well then, don’t screw it up.”

“ALEX!!!” Maggie’s face is red as she stands hands on hips, staring at the two of us in close conversation.

“Yes…?”

“What did you do to the kitchen? I went down to make a sandwich and it’s a disaster!”

“I…”

_I threw a tantrum because I don’t get to be near you and now my sister can and I’m weirdly jealous that any sense of closeness we have is going to leave._ Oh man, I have it bad. Why can’t I shake this crush?

“I challenged myself to make the perfect fried egg,” I say. “You’ll be pleased to know I succeeded.”

“But at what cost?” Kara whispers behind her hand.

Maggie glares. “You are going to come clean it up right now. No way are you leaving that mess for Thomas.”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, hopping to my feet. Maggie follows me closely down the stairs and I find myself wondering how else I can piss off the good doctor to get this extra attention.


	29. Investigation and Interrogation

It’s another night of giggles and unexplained noises from Alex’s room. Maggie wishes Alex could at least keep it quiet in there. She wraps the bathrobe around herself tightly. If she isn’t going to sleep she ought to at least get some work done. In the library the sounds from upstairs are completely muffled. So long as she can avoid looking towards the corner where she caught them canoodling earlier, it’s a good place to work.

The laptop screen glows a light blue as Maggie reviews her report, editing and smoothing language that comes across as too subjective. She works steadily until about two in the morning when the laptop battery is about halfway down. Her mind relaxes, she’s pleased with the extra work accomplished, able to let go of the case as she muddles up the stairs.

The photo of the Danvers parents congratulates her on a job well done. They look like the kind of parents that would have put report cards and high-scoring tests on the fridge. Perhaps her final report to the court will be fridge material, the kind of thing Alex will pause to examine, giving Maggie an admiring glance and a thank you before returning the orange juice to its shelf. In another picture a gangly teenage Alex in braces smiles uncomfortably at the camera wearing a cross country singlet that identifies her as ‘Midvale High School.’ It’s reassuring in a way to know that for as confident and gorgeous as Alex is today, she was once an awkward high schooler.

As Maggie crests the second floor landing something feels off, as though there are an extra couple steps between the floors. She’s walked these stairs dozens, probably more than a hundred times. Frowning, she retreats a couple steps back. Why does this feel wrong? She returns to the first floor, walking the stairs again, smiling at the picture of Alex in braces and…There.

Maggie pauses. Something used to be on the wall. Instinctively she reaches but it feels like any other surface, slightly grainy texture revealing nothing.

By the light of the day, Maggie makes a point of stopping to check out the blank space. The only evidence something used to be there is the nail still protruding from the wall. Mentally, Maggie tries to take herself back to one of her first days in the house, when the last picture of the series must have been there.

“What is it?” Alex asks, causing Maggie to jump.

“I’m trying to remember what was here,” Maggie says. “I just noticed it was missing.”

“Oh weird,” Alex says, peering at the nail. She shrugs. “The cleaning staff probably knocked it down. I bet it will go back up in a day or two once they get a new glass cover. It happens from time to time.”

Alex continues down to the kitchen without glancing back. She never once looked Maggie in the face.

“Hey Alex,” Maggie calls. Her patient turns. “Do you remember what it’s a photo of?”

Alex half-laughs, diverting her gaze. “Probably something embarrassing like the rest of this stuff.”

“I suppose time will tell,” Maggie says.

“Yep.”

Carol is already down in the kitchen, so Maggie toasts some bread and retreats to her room. The missing photo taunts her, and it can’t be a coincidence that Alex saw a missing photo when under hypnosis. Her patient is not a good liar about some things.

There’s no apparent pattern to the pictures, but there is one strange aspect. Alex’s sister Kara doesn’t appear in a single one. She wouldn’t have had many opportunities to make the wall seeing as she was adopted as a teenager and these all pre-date the Dark Years, but to not be in a single one…

Maggie bolts up the stairs to her room. She can imagine the stack of photo albums she spotted beneath the bed the day she moved into the master bedroom.

 

“Hey loser,” Kara says.

“Nerd,” I retort.

“Just wanted to tell you that it’s your lucky day.”

“Oh yeah? Did I win the lottery?”

“As close as you’re going to get. Dr. Sawyer wants to have a private session with you this morning.” Kara tries unsuccessfully to wiggle her eyebrows up and down.

“Please don’t do that. Why does she want a private session?” I’m excited to get some one on one time with Maggie, but the sudden reversal makes me nervous.

“Maybe to talk about feelings?” Kara says.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up! Anyways, she’s in the sunroom now.”

As promised, Maggie is indeed basking in the mid-morning glow of the sunroom, cooling herself in front of the fan. It feels almost like I’m intruding on a personal moment but she waves me in with a smile, lightly closing the door behind. It’s an extra level of privacy that we don’t normally have and the jittery insects in my stomach climb a bit higher.

“Miss me doc?” I ask, hoping I sound carefree and unconcerned.

“Take a seat, Alex.”

“Jumping right in, then.” I hop with a bit too much gusto into the loveseat and it tips back dangerously before returning to a stable position.

“I know having someone new join can be difficult so I wanted to check in one on one,” Maggie says. “How are you doing?”

“I’m…fine.” This must be about the mess yesterday. In retrospect I feel like an idiot for having lost my cool, but I can’t quite bring myself to apologize.

“You seem to enjoy having Carol around,” Maggie says.

“Yeah, sure.” Maggie’s struck a difficult tone that I can’t quite place. Did Kara say something to her? I can’t figure out what we’re talking around.

“I’m glad, she’s a sweet girl,” Maggie continues, gazing past me out the window.

“Yeah…” Now I’m truly lost.

“And you both seem happy."

“Uh huh.”

She offers a light smile. “Do you feel that you’re in a good place with your therapy?”

“I…guess. Sure.”

“Good. Because it’s important to feel emotionally stable, especially when entering into a new relationship. Now I realize this may purely be a physical thing, and that’s fine, I don’t judge. But I do want to make sure that you’re not placing Carol in any danger with respect to Reign. Do you understand?”

“Relationship?” I repeat. “Carol...” I think I might be hallucinating I’m so dizzy with discomfort.

“Alex, it’s fine. You’re both adults and Carol isn’t your therapist, she’s an assistant. I mean, I wish she’d asked me first just to make sure, but I get it.”

“You do?”

“Certainly,” Maggie says. “The way you two talk so easily, the way you naturally communicate. I’ve seen you exchanging glances during session. You have a connection.”

“It’s really not like that –”

“Sneaking into your room at night, I think I get it,” Maggie interrupts. “Alex, you may not have many more days of freedom. At this point in your therapy, I’ve learned what I need to about the bunker and your memories of that time. For the next couple weeks, I just want you to be happy.”

“What are you saying?” A sense of dread blooms from the center of my gut, making my skin feel cold in the warm room.

“I’m going to be leaving. I want you to enjoy your remaining time with Carol. Without distraction.”

“No!” The word explodes from my mouth with such force Maggie physically recoils.

“Why not?” Her face is placid neutrality. She really believes she is doing the right thing for me, that I might be in love with this other person, with…

“She’s my sister Maggie!” I’m too embarrassed to even look up and see her reaction, too far gone to stop the train. “And I want you. I want you to stay. You’re the one that makes me feel…” I swallow the handful of needles that have been slowly constricting my throat.

“You make me feel alive. I like you Maggie. Like, _like_ you. I know it’s cliched and stupid, yet another patient falling in love with their therapist and I know you don’t feel the same, but there you have it.”

There’s no sound from the sofa opposite, not even the sound of her breathing. As the awkwardness stretches I can’t stop the urge to plow forward.

“So if you want me to be happy, to be with the person I want for these next weeks, I choose you. I’d choose you even over Kara.”

There’s another excruciating pause but fortunately I have nothing more with which to humiliate myself.

“You… _like_ me?” Maggie says.

“Yeah,” I say, burying my head in my hands. There’s no follow-up, no yelling, no disappointment at having withheld yet another, bigger secret.

“Wait,” I say. “You aren’t upset about Kara being here? The whole Carol thing?”

“Oh I figured that out,” Maggie says. “The glasses and hair don’t really hide it that well. Honestly I was just trying to get you to admit it.”

“You knew? So, were you not going to leave?” Finally, a silver lining.

“No, I was,” Maggie says. Her cheeks pink. “I am, I think. It’s been hard to be here. Around you. I figured, I’ve done what I can for your case. I should remove myself from…” Her voice trails off as the color in her cheeks deepens.

“From what?”

“From the temptation. Especially now.”

There’s a space between us that we’ve walled off, that contains the memory of her lips on mine. It’s something I’ve stared across, pretending not to notice every time we speak, and it turns out that over all these days and weeks Maggie has been playing the same game of not-seeing-pretend.

“You like… _me_?” I echo. “But I drive you crazy.”

Maggie laughs. It’s a laugh that makes me want to hear her laugh again and again, to see the face she makes when she arches with pleasure, to hear her gasp and know _she’s mine_.

“You have no idea,” she agrees. “I like you so much it hurts to breath. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life. I think about our kiss every night when I fall asleep, I dream about you at night. I don’t know how I will live with myself if this trial goes poorly.”

Unconsciously I cross the space between us, reaching to touch her hair, her cheeks and lips. Her pulse beats quickly in her neck as she leans in, her eyelashes kissing the soft skin just below my ear.

“I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but I’m so scared, Alex,” she whispers. “I think I might be in love with you. And I’m afraid by the time I can do anything about that, we won’t have a chance.”

Something low and primal vibrates in my throat.

“I’ve been in love with you for weeks, Maggie Sawyer. I love that you’re always cold, even now in the middle of summer. I love that you’re finicky and fussy about putting things in their place, and that you’re a picky eater. I love that you don’t scare easily. I love that for as small as you are, you don’t let anyone push you around. I love that you call me on the bullshit everyone else lets slide because they feel sorry for me.”

Millimeters separate our lips and heat radiates from Maggie’s usually cool skin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me right now,” she says. In the tangled space we share I can smell her skin and my own aroma mixing in a heady combination.

“World it work?” We might be the only two people in the world right now. Nothing else exists.

“Most definitely.”

I turn so we are cheek to cheek, teasing my lip on her ear. “Do you want me to?” I whisper. For as much as I want her, it’s a line that once crossed can’t be uncrossed. A moment that I need her to enter into with no regrets.

“Yes.” An exhalation more than a word. “But we can’t. Not until…” Her words hang in the air and I sense her will fading. I could ignore her warning, take her in my arms and make her mine right now. Or I can be the stronger one, hold her steady in spite of desire.

“Not until it’s over,” I finish.

“Yes,” she says gratefully.

Gently I kiss the corner of her mouth. As I pull away her face is flushed, deep red spots on her checks and in patches up her neck. She swallows and looks up, her brown eyes nearly black with intensity.

“I’m sorry for the trick about Carol. I guess I should say Kara.”

“I probably deserved it.”

“Definitely,” she says. “Let’s make a deal. No more secrets. Not from me, and not for you. I want to help you Alex, but I need your complete trust.”

Slowly I nod. “Deal.”

Maggie’s eyes dart to the side. “There is one thing I need to share,” she says. “While you were in the trance I took a small blood sample. It’s being tested for some information that may help your case. I should have asked first.”

That explains the tender shoulder. But as far as secrets go that’s pretty mild. Especially since Maggie probably could have subpoenaed it from me if she wanted.

“Do you hate me?” Maggie asks.

“Not at all.”

She sighs with relief. “You?” Crap.

“Um, Carol Kent is actually my sister, Kara Danvers. You already know that.”

“I do,” Maggie says. “I was hoping you’d tell me about Hank Henshaw.” Those beautiful brown eyes pierce me, intelligent and unwavering.

“Uh, Kara wouldn’t want me to share it.”

“Kara isn’t on trial for multiple murders. And we made a deal. No secrets.”

Fair point. “Um, so Hank Henshaw is alive. And…well, funny story, you know him.” I wipe sweaty palms against my shorts. “He’s currently going by the name Jonn Jonnz. AKA the guy you know as my attorney.”

There’s a beat of silence while Maggie scans her memory, puts the pieces together.

“Illusionism? Memory modification?” she says slowly.

“Yeah. Also mind reading,” I say. I try for a goofy smile to break the sudden tension. “That’s Jonn.”


	30. Keeping up with the Jonnz

The test results from the morgue confirm the increasing convoluted story. Yes, Alex’s blood contains genetic modification. In fact, a modification closely related to the body labelled Hank Henshaw. However, that body also tests positive as a first degree relative to Alex Danvers, rendering the label an error. The result is a spiraling series of causes and effects that all leads to the same place.

“You manipulated me!”

Maggie’s here without an appointment, yelling at the imposing figure who hired her, his administrative assistant looking on in barely-disguised astonishment. “You aren’t who you say you are. You’ve made me do things…things I would never! You probably did that to Alex as well. You’ve manipulated everyone and everything in this case! And if she gets hurt because of you –”

“Dr. Sawyer, perhaps we can discuss this in my office,” he says. His deep voice subliminally calms her, but that’s what he wants, Maggie thinks, fighting the urge to relax. She must remain vigilant, on edge, whatever it takes to ensure he isn’t controlling her reaction.

“No!”

“Inside!” his voice is no louder but somehow booms with an authority that cannot be ignored. Fuming, Maggie enters his office, the attorney calmly shutting the door behind her.

“So you know,” he says.

“You did this. You’re the reason Alex is even in this position.” Maggie can scarcely recognize her own voice, so full of venom and rage.

“To some extent, yes.” He takes a seat behind the desk. Maggie’s body tugs towards the opposite chair but she fights it, opting to remain standing of her own stubborn will.

“I never would have done those things. I could lose my license. This is all your fault.”

The attorney tilts his head, and Maggie can imagine invisible tendrils of power probing her mind.

“Don’t do that!” Maggie yells. She might be losing her mind.

“What?”

“That mind reading thing. Alex told me that was part of your deal.”

“It’s not quite that simple Dr. Sawyer…”

“Just, don’t!” Maggie’s voice chokes into a partial sob.

The attorney leans forward, placing his hands on the desk quietly, the calm in the midst of the storm. “Is there something you fear I might see? If that’s the case, I assure you I would not have brought you into this case if I thought at all poorly of the ambient thoughts in your mind.”

“You made me fall for her,” Maggie says. _And it’s changed everything_. Equal parts joy and terror, this weightless sensation she’s never known. She’s ashamed to realize how much it scares her.

“No,” he replies. “There’s a lot you don’t know about yourself Dr. Sawyer. But I would never presume to reveal that to you, nor cause you to do anything that would betray your ethics. It’s true that I suggested certain things to you. I encouraged you to take the case because I could see that you are a person of strong will and intellect. I asked you to move into the house, so your therapy could progress more rapidly. But those were suggestions only, I do not have the power to change your mind. And as for what happened between you and Alex…I claim no credit and will take no blame.”

“I don’t believe you,” Maggie says.

“And there is nothing I can do to relieve you of that belief,” he replies. His persistent calm robs the room of the angry energy Maggie held to so tightly on the long ride into National City. The fury, the frustration slips away like sand through a timepiece, slowly but surely depleting in quantity until nothing remains.  

Maggie sits. “Tell me the truth,” she says, some rational part of her brain finally wresting control over her mouth.

“Who do you see before you Dr. Sawyer? It will be someone familiar, someone you know from before.” The façade of the attorney glimmers slightly as Maggie concentrates on his features. It strikes her like a bolt of electricity and she shakes her head, wondering how she didn’t see it sooner.

“Matlock. You look just like Matlock.”

“Matlock!” the attorney replies in delight. “That’s a good one. Did you watch the show?”

“My mother likes it. I’d sometimes watch reruns with her.”

“Your mother has excellent taste in television.”

“Who are you?” Maggie asks.

The illusion fades and in the space formerly occupied by an attorney that looked strikingly like Matlock, is the very alive body of Hank Henshaw.

“I’ve gone by many names,” he says. “For now, you may call me Jonn Jonnz. The Danvers sisters have previously known me as Hank Henshaw. Given the current notoriety of my prior life, I wear a glamour to disguise my appearance. I allow the viewer to fill in physical details they associate with lawyers. In your case, that meant Matlock.” Jonn chuckles to himself.

“Are you…human?”

“As much as Alex and Kara. My situation is not dissimilar to Jerimiah Danvers.”

“I don’t follow. Your file doesn’t have you with DEO that far back.”

“Not under the name Hank Henshaw.”

“Who were you before Hank?”

“Your average disposable black man,” he says. “The name isn’t important. But I worked alongside Jerimiah in the DEO arms division. They selected a few of us for our strength and size to undergo testing. They wanted to create the ultimate fighting human, and at the time I was young and vain enough to believe that a compliment. It was to their great disappointment to learn the genetic modification that granted Kara Danvers her strength would not manifest the same in all hosts.”

“What happened?”

“A simple procedure. I found I could change the way others perceived the world, even the way they thought. DEO dismissed me as a failed experiment, but of course that didn’t mean they gave up.”

Jonn’s face turns dark with a long-smoldering anger. “So they claimed my son for testing,” he says in a growl. “Without my consent and without his. He was only fourteen.” For a second it appears the usually calm attorney may do something extreme; flip the desk, punch a wall. Maggie doesn’t doubt for a second that he has the raw human strength to do so. But he regains his composure and even manages a small smile.

“Fortunately, he too failed to manifest the super strength and super speed they valued above all else.” His voice holds a hint a distain. “I extract us both before we could be subjected to any additional testing.”

Maggie leans forward, no longer angry with this man, but overcome with compassion. “Why did you go back? Why keep working for DEO?”

“You know the saying?” he says. “Keep your friends close…”

“But your enemies closer,” Maggie finishes. “You didn’t think that would be dangerous? What if they recognized you or tried testing again?”

“Mental manipulation is a far more useful tool than most people initially believe,” Jonn replies. “I had to return to know if there were more of us, to protect them if possible, and to thwart any plans DEO might have to try again. It allowed me to be there for Alex, for Kara. With the ability to vanish into thin air via illusion, I can go anywhere. I had access to everything.”

“That’s why no one saw you in the bunker,” Maggie says with sudden understanding.

“Correct. Myself and the younger Ms. Danvers only had to wait for an open moment and walk out.”

“But…why? Why not let Alex escape too? Why does it all have to fall on her?” _It’s so unfair_ , Maggie wants to say, but even in her head she hears how naïve it sounds.

“I agree, it is not fair,” Jonn says. “Unfortunately, my abilities are not endless. I could shield only one and Alex volunteered to be left behind. But even if she had not, my son advised me to protect Kara over Alex.”

Jonn smiles at Maggie’s immediate question.

“Telepathically,” he clarifies. “No, my son was not present in the bunker. Nor is he a ‘little shit’ that deserves any blame.”

“Sorry,” Maggie mumbles.

“We all have thoughts that come unbidden,” he replies, a soothing twinkle in his eye. “And normally I’d let you voice your questions, but I am speeding us along as I imagine you’ll want to be returning soon. I can assure you, my son wishes Alex no ill will. He’s been keeping watch over her since the day she moved back to the Danvers estate.”

Unbidden, the image of the first time she saw Alex after moving into the house comes to mind. Alex laughing heartily across the kitchen island, a broad smile directed at her companion, the chef hired by her attorney, a young black man she knows only as Thomas.

Maggie’s jaw drops.

“You should probably ask him yourself,” Jonn says.

 

Maggie is pretty sure she breaks every speeding law in the books on the way back to Midvale. Thomas. Hiding in plain sight. Invisible, overhearing everything, the easy confidant… A strangled guttural noise escapes Maggie’s lips.

Maggie pulls into the garage sharply. Thomas’s beater rests on the edge of the driveway. He should be in the kitchen preparing dinner. Maggie can scarcely breath as she heads to the stuffy basement level.

“Out,” she says as the door swings open. Immediately conversation ceases. Thomas glances up from the cutting board while Alex cocks her head in confusion.

“Alex, I need you to leave,” Maggie says.

“I’ll just clean up and be out in a minute,” Thomas says.

“No, you stay.”

Thomas and Alex exchange a look. Alex spins off the stool and places a hand gently on Maggie’s shoulder.

“Hey Maggie, you ok?” she asks quietly. “You left in a rush earlier and now you’re back and being a bit…intense. And that’s coming from me.”

Maggie struggles to push lump of fury in her throat down to a place below the sternum. “Tell me you didn’t know about Thomas,” she says.

“Thomas? Know what?”

Maggie’s eyelids flutter. It’s past the time for games and coyness. “Did you know that he’s Jonn’s son.”

Alex takes a quick step back. Her eyes snap from Maggie over to Thomas, still standing over the cubed veggies.

“T?” Alex asks.

“It’s still me, Alex.” In spite of the large knife he’s holding, the soft-spoken chef appears terrified. Without a word Alex rushes over, squeezing him tightly.

“Why didn’t you say anything, you big goober?” Alex says into his shoulder. Carefully Thomas sets the knife aside before returning the squeeze.

Safe to say Alex didn’t know, Maggie thinks. Thank god. She’s not sure she could handle Alex keeping another secret after they promised to clear the air.  

Alex releases Thomas, smoothing out his apron. “Maggie, Thomas has nothing to do with any of this mess. If Jonn put him here it was probably just to help.” Her concern for her friend is so earnest Maggie can’t help but relent a bit.

“I’m not…mad at him,” Maggie says. “But I do need to talk to him. And I think it should be alone.”

The change in tone appears to satisfy Alex. She offers Maggie a quick touch on the elbow as she leaves. The outburst leaves Maggie feeling deflated of energy. For his part, Thomas returns to his work, whistling atonally as he pulls out pots and pans. For a few minutes Maggie lets the ambient sounds of the kitchen bombard her. She could be a piece of furniture here, as stealthy and unnoticed as Thomas.

“I’m sorry about that,” Maggie says.

Thomas shrugs. Apology not good enough.

“I’m sorry for assuming the worst,” Maggie continues. “Especially since I know this wasn’t something you signed up for. It’s something you got stuck with.” Thomas stops whistling, a sign that he’s at least listening.

Maggie sighs. “The truth is, I’ve been wrong about everyone in this fucked-up situation. I don’t know what is what anymore and who I can trust. DEO made your life miserable and for that I’m sorry. I’m not much inclined to like them either, so I hope for that reason, you can work with me.”

Oil sizzles in the pan.

“What are you trying to do?” Thomas asks.

“Protect Alex. That’s all.”

“Likewise,” he says. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you say she should be the one to stay behind?”

Thomas tosses the minced garlic and ginger into the pan, the aroma making Maggie’s mouth water.

“Did my father tell you how the DEO changed me?”

“No. I assume the same as him, mind reading, illusion stuff.”

“Nope,” he says. “We’re not like Alex and Kara who share the same modification. We underwent separate procedures. My abilities are mentally based like my father, but different than his. The easiest way to describe it is as a seer.”

“A seer? Like a psychic?”

“Ish,” Thomas says, mixing in some of the vegetables to the pan. “I have the ability to glimpse the future in my dreams. Possibilities of the future at least. Hints of what’s to come.”

“Ok,” Maggie says. “But you haven’t answered my question. Why did you put it all on Alex? Why?”

“Because I saw that she was tough enough,” Thomas says. “Because she can survive this. And because the world needs Supergirl.”

“Supergirl?” Maggie says. “Who the hell is that?”

“Kara. I’m still workshopping the name,” he admits. “But it has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

“Isn’t it a bit derivative of Superman? No one wants that.”

“No one will care about that in the future,” Thomas says. “The world needs Supergirl to survive the next apocalypse. And Supergirl only survives if Alex Danvers protects her now.”

“You can’t know that.”

“You’re right. The dreams change a little bit every night as the future adjusts itself to the evolving present. But some things remain constant. And among those things…”

“Supergirl?”

“Bingo.”

“You really need to find a new name,” Maggie says.

“I don’t know, that one’s really growing on me.”

In spite of herself Maggie laughs. Of course Alex ends up here because a psychic has a vision of her superpowered sister becoming a superhero that saves the future. It’s the only reason more ridiculous than something she could imagine.

“So Alex makes it through this?” Maggie asks. Thomas did say Alex could survive. “She’s acquitted?”

Maggie can picture it now: Alex walking down the courthouse steps beside her attorney as he fields questions from reporters. Alex smiles at her, climbs into the waiting car, and as soon as they pull away they can finally touch. Maggie will have plane tickets ready for them to go anywhere in the world. They don’t even need suitcases, they’ll buy clothes in their new locale, blend in, disappear together, forever. Leave whatever disaster the world has in store next up to Kara Danvers.

Thomas shifts from foot to foot. “Well… I don’t know.

“How can you not know? You just said you see the freaking future?!”

“Some things,” he clarifies. “I don’t get every channel. Alex is a bit of a wild card. Sometimes she’s there and sometimes not. But that doesn’t mean the trial goes poorly.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” This day has beat Maggie into the ground. A tornado of emotion that has been swirling and strewing crap in its wake for hours, finally settling and placing Maggie atop the ruined landscape. Alex loves her. Maggie is pretty sure she loves Alex. Their story can’t end with Alex going to prison, or worse, the chair. Maggie would give almost anything for this one piece of the future to be knowable.

“Do you at least know what happened in that bunker?” Maggie asks.

She’s grasping at straws and knows it. She needs something, anything, to feel like there is a way of unwinding the impossible knot of what happened in that damn bunker.

_But do you even want to know?_ Knowing it could still be Alex, that she might still be the proper defendant to this trial.

“I’m afraid not,” Thomas says. “That’s something only my father knows. But I’ll save you the trip back to National City,” he adds. “He’s vowed to never say.”

Thomas pauses in his sautéing to acknowledge Maggie directly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re the two stuck trying to make the best of it for Alex. And like everyone else, we’re going to have to wait to see how this ends.”


	31. The Waiting Game

The long days of summer fall into their lazy pattern. The sun rises earlier and earlier until it feels as if the light never completely fades from the day before. We continue our sessions in the morning, moving from discussion of the bunker to integration.

“Reign is part of you,” Maggie says. “Once you can accept that she won’t need to take control. You’ll be able to address those portions of your life that cause you pain without her assistance.”

“Sounds very _Wizard of Oz_. Like it was within me all along. Guess that makes you the good witch,” I add with a wink.

Maggie grins, that adorable ice cream scooper deepening into her cheek. “That’s not a bad way to think of it,” she says. “It’s not uncommon to want to reject that part of yourself, though. Reign has caused a lot of pain for you and for others.”

I don’t really want to continue this more serious conversation. I’d rather try to make Maggie smile again. But she’s speaking in that low, earnest tone reserved for her most focused moments. She won’t appreciate me being off task right now.

“I get that Reign is a part of me. I don’t mind that.”

“Then what’s holding you back?” Maggie leans forward, peering at me intently as if the answer might be written into my skin if she could only see.

“Maybe Reign is rejecting me,” I joke. I think it’s a joke. I only meant to tease, to flip her question upside down but my gut drops and knots as though I may have inadvertently hit upon something real.

“Why do you think Reign would reject you?”

“Because I’m weak,” I say. “Because I let them push me around. I don’t let myself get angry.”

“Why not?”

Something stabs against my palm. I unclench my fists, leaving tiny half-half indentations from my nails.

“There’s not a great history with anger in my family.”

“Your father?”

“That’s right.” I tear at the nail that stabbed me. The edge rips with a satisfying sharpness.

“Are you angry, Alex?” Maggie’s question lingers in the warm air. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were. You’ve had a lot put on you.”

I can’t respond. In the trees a cluster of blue jays flit from branch to branch, exchanging gossip and competing for attention. If only life could be so simple as the birds and people that jump from place to place, entertained with banal conversation and day-to-day responsibilities. If only I could go back…how far even? I’m not sure at what point it all went awry. If Kara never joins the Danvers family then I never get to experience having a sister, not to mention I die of a rare illness in my early twenties. If my father never goes AWOL, faking his own death, then I have a dad to guide me through adulthood, but would his lessons have helped? If this, if that, if all of the above. Another one of those ridiculous hypotheticals. In the end none of it matters.

“Yeah, I’m angry,” I say. But we can’t show it, I don’t add. Anger is wrong, something that must be pushed down deep, buried and forgotten. But they never warn you that it leaves a core of molten lava that must at times be released. They don’t seem to realize that the anger I’ve learned to cover so well isn’t gone merely because it’s out of sight. It’s basic thermodynamics.

Maggie takes my hand, carefully unclenching my fist.

“I’m afraid to tell you,” I say finally.

“Why?”

“What if you don’t like me anymore?” It sounds so stupid aloud.

“Alex Danvers. I love you,” she says. “That’s why I’m still here. It’s why no one knows about Kara. Or Jonn. There is nothing you could say that would make me leave now.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

Slowly I exhale, emptying myself of everything. “I’m angry all the time,” I say. “I’m so angry sometimes I can’t breathe. I’m angry at my father for being a coward and leaving, and then for becoming and bully and returning. I’m mad at the world, for forcing us underground for years and making me sick. I’m mad at DEO and what they did to Kara, to Jonn, to everyone. I’m even mad at Kara sometimes.”

Each target I name is like a rock thrown off my body. By the time I’m finished listing everything, my body is noticeably lighter, although I sense that with time the rocks will find their way back onto my chest.

“You have to let it out, Alex,” Maggie says. Her voice is so quiet it might be the breeze speaking. “All this rage you’ve let sit there, it’s breaking you, literally dividing you in two. The world isn’t fair and honestly, for the most part, it sucks. You’re allowed to be angry. And you’re allowed to show it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how.”

“Come on.” Maggie helps me stand and we walk past the garden to the edge of the woods, just below the blue jays. “Yell,” she says. “Everything you ever wanted to scream at me, at your father, anyone. Let them have it.”

“That’s stupid.” Laughter rises from the back of my throat, more embarrassment than anything.

“Hey Kara!” Maggie yells, waving her over from the discrete position at which she watches to make sure no lines are crossed.

“I don’t see how that helps,” I mutter. Having my sister close will only make me more self-conscious about this touchy-feely stuff.

“Alex and I are going to yell out our frustrations,” Maggie says. “Want to join us?”

“Sure!”

Kara lines up on my other side, fists bundled with excitement.

“Alright,” Maggie says. “Close your eyes. Think of all those things that upset you. Everything in life that isn’t fair, that sucks, anytime you felt angry but couldn’t show it.” As she speaks her voice deepens and rises in volume.

I don’t want to see anything behind my closed lids, but the darkness reminds me of the bunker. _Why couldn’t I have lived in a normal time?_ I see my father reappearing after so many years, the hurt in Kara’s face, _why do I always have to be the strong one_ , remember the shame of dropping out of med school because of these blackouts, diagnosed only now, more than a decade later.

“Now open your eyes and let it out.”

The world is green rage as I breathe fire, the air rent with howling cries from Maggie and Kara, pain of every shade and timbre. Gusts of air flow through me, maintaining the cry until at last it fades, leaving a perfect still silence. In all my life, there has always been something, the low hum of the refrigerator, the clicking of insects, the buzz of machinery. But even the wind pauses in the wake of our war cry and a silence so pure, so full fills the land that a small piece of it attaches to my soul, becomes a part of me.

Kara catches me as I stumble, but it’s Maggie into whose arms I fall, weeping on her shoulder like a child as she murmurs sounds of comfort older than language. There’s nothing more to hide. Not from this person who knows me better than anyone in the world. Who knows me better than I know myself.

Kara watches from her periphery, not wanting to intrude but holding us to the standards that distinguish doctor and patient.

After our session we all go about random activities until dinner. Maggie and Kara often disappear for hours, running errands, conducting research, and presumably working on that blasted report. Sometimes Kara is set free and the two of us create our own havoc around the house as if the Dark Years never happened and we are still teenagers with all the optimism and possibilities of life ahead.

Before dinner is my time with Thomas. My gentle chef and I joke and laugh, and it’s the part of the day where I feel the most normal, where there are no boundaries that need to be watched.

In the evenings that stretch on till close to ten p.m. Maggie and I take to walking the wooded trails, Kara following, ever the dutiful chaperone. During those twilit hours we talk of everything; hope and fear and parallel worlds filled with different choices.

All this in never-ending cycle until it feels as if the world has always been a succession of pleasant, aimless days spent in something that is akin to, but not quite, bliss. It’s Jonn’s arrival that signals the end to our pattern. There’s a long meeting with Maggie during which the library door remains firmly closed for nearly three hours. When Jonn asks me to join, Maggie averts her eyes but not quickly enough to hide the puffiness which indicates she’s been crying.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed that your trial date must be approaching,” Jonn says.

Honestly, I’ve almost forgotten, but I nod anyway.

“You’ll need to pack a bag,” Jonn says. “Some nice clothes for court. Maggie can help. Tomorrow you will be relocated to the National City jail for the duration of the trial.”

“I can’t stay here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jonn says. A muffled noise escapes Maggie’s lips. “You were fortunate to be granted allowance to stay here while awaiting trial. The court is not going to support a two-hour round-trip commute.”

Abruptly he stands, straightening his tie and leaving.

“It’s all happening so soon,” Maggie whispers between her hands. “I thought we’d have more time…”

“We’ll have all the time in the world when this is over,” I say, nearly tripping over my chair to reach her. Damp cheeks smile in my hands, kissing the tips of my fingers, holding my hands in place. It’s so uncharacteristically demonstrative that I’m suddenly struck by the enormity of the change.

“Alex…”

“I’m here.”

Our noses touch as someone clears their throat. Eyes fluttering, Maggie pulls away. In the doorway, Kara studies the hinge on the door with great interest.

“Uh, yeah. Jonn wanted me to get…” Kara says, gesturing vaguely down the hall.

“Probably me,” Maggie says.

I’m left alone in the solemn library, standing on the edge of the abyss.

Dinner is a morbid affair. Everyone tries to pretend it’s like any other day, but despair paints the faces of Maggie, Kara, and Thomas, all of whom are thinking the same thing: _this could be the last time_. Maggie in particular picks at her food, but when Thomas enters with a mini-loaf of cake she seems to perk up. Strangely Kara shows no interest, instead collecting the dinner plates and carrying them to the dishwasher.

Deliberately, Thomas slices down the middle of the loaf, setting half on a plate for Maggie and half for me. “Eat up,” he says a bit nervously.

“I’m really not hungry,” I say.

“Please,” he says. “It’s a going-away sort of present. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Come on, Alex,” Maggie says. “Be nice.” She dives in, glancing at me in between bites.

The cake is delicious, something I know to expect from Thomas. But I can’t quite place the flavor, is it almond or lavender? Maybe hazelnut, but also savory as though he added basil. The mystery is enough for me to finish, even as I’m not quite sure why he’s so insistent.

For her part, the unexpected dessert seems to have perked Maggie’s spirits. She bounds up the stairs like a kid that’s had too much sugar.

“I’m glad you’re in a good mood.” I can’t help grumbling a bit. After all, she isn’t moving into the jailhouse in twelve hours.

“Come on, who doesn’t love cake?”

“He didn’t offer any to Kara.”

“Because he knows she hates sugar,” Maggie says. “He’s trying to be nice to us.”

“I guess.”

At the agreement, Maggie spins and smiles. “You better get some sleep,” she says.

“It’s eight o’clock.”

“Oh is it?” Maggie shrugs. “Well I’m tired. The next few days are going to be big ones.” Maggie pauses at her door. “Hey Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Sweet dreams.”

I snort. “Yeah, you too.” It’s cheesy but cute, especially when combined with Maggie’s wound up energy. I’ve spent all day feeling nervous and out of sorts but something about her wish for _sweet dreams_ has me relaxed, even mildly sleepy. I can’t imagine I’ll sleep well in the jail so perhaps Maggie is right, and I should head to bed early. Certainly if she’s asleep there isn’t much else for me to do.

 

Fabric rustles soothingly against my ears as I yawn and stretch, warm, soft glow in the room.

“Hey sexy,” Maggie says, her lips against my ear. I squirm as she tickles me, her fingers growing more gentle as they slide around to the scars on my abdomen.

“When did you get here?” I ask.

“I told you, I wanted to go straight to bed.” Maggie’s eyes sparkle with the double entendre.

“But the trial is tomorrow…”

“And we’re only here in our dream,” Maggie finishes. Her lips close around mine.

I must have fallen asleep then. “But how?”

“Thomas. He brought us together for this shared dream. We’ll sleep in our separate rooms, but we can be together tonight. We can have this one night.”

Maggie’s lips close on mine again, hungry, nipping at the skin.

“Are you sure? This feels so real,” I say, inadvertently cutting her off from her goal.

Maggie sighs with exasperation. “Oh good grief woman! Look around! This isn’t your room. This place doesn’t exist. You can change anything you want by just imagining it. We can go anywhere.”

She’s right. The light doesn’t come through my window this way and the soft glow is in spite of the cool night outside. A perfectly impossible blend of atmosphere.

“Anywhere?” I repeat.

“In the world.”

Staring into her dark eyes, there’s only one place I want to be.

I’m afraid that touching Maggie will ruin the illusion, that I won’t be able to feel her, but her skin is as soft as I remember, slightly warm to the touch. The world around us fades for all I need is this. Someplace soft and dimly lit, alone with Maggie Sawyer. She sighs deeply as my hand works its way up her arm to her shoulder, ending at the cheek where her dimple lives. She leans into the palm and our bodies come together, a single mess of lips and tongues, arms and legs, raw nerve endings. She is the world and I’m her sun, we are bound together, a single unit in a vast and cold universe. We play out the story of time, sun colliding into earth, earth into sun, perfect in their absolute destruction.

When she’s spent, she rests against me, and for a time that’s enough. Her heart beats into my chest and we fall into a steady, shared rhythm. My hand lightly traces her skin, leaving a wake of goosebumps.

“Do you wish you could forget?”

It takes a moment to realize the question came from my own lips.

“It hasn’t been easy for you,” I continue. “And it might never be, depending how this ends. If you could erase this experience, or even just me, would you?”

I couldn’t blame her if she did, I realize. If I’m convicted and she asks Jonn to remove this memory of us together, that’s on me, not her.

“Why do you ask?”

“I just… I know tonight doesn’t make up for the months we’ve been here and had to remain apart. And if I’m found guilty, this could be all we have. And for me, this memory will be a safe haven, but for you, it becomes a prison, holding you back from finding a happiness you can share.”

“Living with the past is rarely easy,” Maggie says. “If it were I’d be out of a job.”

“Do you think I’m a coward to have asked Jonn to remove my memory of the bunker?”

“I think every situation is unique,” Maggie says. “And you must have had a good reason for making that request. The fact is, memory is both a blessing and curse. We are defined by our experiences in life and the ways in which we fit those experiences into our life narrative. Who knows how your time in the bunker might have changed the person I know as Alex Danvers. Maybe a lot, maybe not at all, but it’s made you the person I love.”

“As for me,” Maggie continues, turning back to recline against my chest. “I wouldn’t let anyone take my memory of you for a million dollars. I want to know that I fell in love with you here, despite all the complications, all the challenges. It’s not a clean narrative, and I’ve had to change a lot of assumptions about who I am because of that. But with you, by knowing you, I’m finally complete.”

 

_Finally, complete._

The words echo in my head as sleep falls from my body. I’m the only one in the bed, but I can still feel Maggie’s ghost pressed against me, the heat of her breath, my own slickness between my legs. Man, if dreaming about Maggie feels that good I can’t even imagine how amazing it will be when we can actually touch.

I toss back the dirty sheets. I can’t get sidetracked dreaming anymore. I need to take a shower. After that, change into something that makes me look responsible and sane.

_Deep breath Danvers._

My trial starts today.


	32. The Trial

“Hear ye, hear ye, all rise for the Honorable Justice Whats-her-face!”

With a loud shuffling everyone stands, Jonn guiding me to my feet. I still can’t believe that’s actually a thing they do. Everything about courtroom procedure feels like I’ve jumped back in time two hundred years. Except the row of photographers in the corner, of course. I try to not glance over there lest I create a lightning storm of flashes. But I can’t resist turning around periodically to scan the room for Maggie. She won’t be speaking for at least a day, but it would be nice to see her. A bit of moral support.

Jonn glares at me, his mouth tight, meaning clear. _Stop fidgeting_. Guess I’m not the only one on edge today.

Unfortunately, his request leaves me not quite sure where to look, behind is clearly bad, the jury makes me nervous, and the stern-faced Judge Wyatt even more so. I’m left to examine my hands but that tends to led to me picking at the edges of my nails, another habit Jonn’s asked me to curb.

So I sit restlessly, trying not to listen to the prosecutor’s opening statement, not to smile lest it appear I’m not taking this serious, and not to frown lest I appear to confirm something. It’s an impossible act I conclude. How exactly does one try to appear innocent when sitting at the defendant’s table? Better if they mixed things up, left the jury guessing who was who, offered some kind of challenge to the assumptions I can see the men and women making even as I avoid direct eye contact.

The prosecutor’s voice rises and falls in proximity to me. His hand extends in accusing fashion as Jonn seems to lean forward, taking the brunt of the prosecutor’s anger. Reign stirs within. _I could crush him_ she promises. _No one would question you again._

I know it’s true. Here in this court I could make an example. But that makes me no different than my father, who expected special treatment for his gifts as well. I don’t want to stand out. I want to sit in that jury box someday, peer to another, and be seen as a member of this community. I want to belong. Reign fades into the back recesses.

Jonn rises, smoothing the front of his suit. It’s his turn to speak. I find myself sitting up a bit straighter, wanting to hear every word.

“The prosecution would have you believe this is a simple case,” Jonn says. His voice reverberates deeply through the marbled room. “And that a sole survivor must be to blame for the deaths of dozens. But really, what evidence do they offer other than the life of Alexandra Danvers? What motive can they conceive for such an event? In many respects, this trial is about nothing more than their need to assign blame. But as we know, life is not such a simple thing. Cause and effect cannot be so clearly articulated.”

“What happened in that bunker, we may never know. And that is not an easy thing to accept. As humans, we yearn for closure. We desire stories with messages, happily ever afters, and discrete resolution. Open endings create anxiety. But this is not about your need for answers, their need for blame. This trial is not about you.”

Jonn turns from the jury, his eyes warming and filling me with strength.

“This trial is about Alex Danvers. It’s about her right to live. Alex Danvers is a survivor of a horrible, devasting event. But the fact of her survival is not evidence. And surviving is not a crime.”

Jonn takes his seat and I fight the urge to applaud. Someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Thought you might need something to keep your hands busy,” Maggie says. She’s attached a mechanical pencil to the front of the book. Inside, word puzzles and logic games of every variety.

 _I love you Maggie Sawyer._ I know I can’t say it in this public place, surrounded by cameras and recording devices, but I can at least thank her. However, by the time I turn back, she’s vanished.

 

The Danvers house feels oddly quiet without its primary occupant, even as the cleaning staff go about their daily activities and Kara fidgets about in an eerie imitation of her older sister. Maggie watches the younger Danvers for a few minutes before clearing her throat loudly.

“Maggie!” Kara jumps to her feet, scattering the dominoes she’s been stacking. “How’s the trial going?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie says. “I just dropped off the book for Alex. I didn’t want to watch. Though I did see Jonn’s opening argument. It was quite good.”

“I’ll bet.” Kara gazes out the door with a hint of envy.

“It’s not safe for you to be there. Reporters will have done their homework. They will know what you look like.”

Kara sighs slowly. “I know. I just wish I could be there for Alex.”

“Hey, that’s my job,” Maggie says with a gentle nudge.

Kara grins. “Hey, I know it’s been weird, but, I want you to know that what you’ve done for Alex these past few weeks… Well, it’s incredible. I’ve never seen her this centered or this happy. I mean, she jokes with you! That’s kind of unprecedented for her.”

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Maggie says. Her patient restlessly trapped in that courtroom, craving action over the endless talking that defines such proceedings. Maggie can’t help but smile.

“And she’s lucky to have you,” Maggie adds. “You’ve been an incredible help to me. You’ve given Alex a chance.”

Something in Kara’s face flickers. A quick twitch, a glance, Maggie isn’t quite sure, but it immediately sets her on edge.

“Kara?”

“Yes?”

Two supers, both dedicated to Alex. Why didn’t she realize this sooner?

“Tell me you don’t have some ridiculous plan to break Alex out.”

“Ha!” Kara replies, placing her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes broadly. “Of course not!”

“Kara…”

“Because the plan is not remotely ridiculous,” Kara finishes. “Obviously we’re smarter than that.” She balls up her fists shaking them in frustration. “Gah! What is about you that makes me unable to lie?”

“Your sister is a better liar than you, and you know I see straight through her,” Maggie says. “Now this plan you have? It’s off. Not happening. Promise me right now.”

“Maggie, you love Alex,” Kara says. “Don’t you want to be with her?”

“That is exactly why you can’t do anything stupid! Of course, I want to be with Alex. I want us to redecorate this old house, to travel, raise a family, or at least a boatload of dogs. Do you know what that means?”

“That you understand why Jonn and I have to do this?”

“No!” Maggie closes her eyes briefly. Oh, to be an enhanced human with superpowers, never worried about these ordinary things.

“No, Kara,” Maggie says more calmly. “It means Alex must be cleared of charges or serve her punishment. If she jumps out of the process, not only does she look even more guilty of this, she will forever be guilty of evading justice. She will be on the run for the rest of her life, not able to settle down or live openly. I can’t do that. And I won’t let ruin my chance to be with her.”

“But Jonn…”

“Let me worry about Jonn. I just need you to stay here and promise me that you will not interfere.”

Kara bites her lip for several seconds. She glances down. “I promise,” she says.

Finding parking downtown is damn near impossible at four p.m. but lady justice must want Maggie to succeed for she only has to circle the block once before she spots someone pulling out from a prime location. Judge Wyatt is clearly watching the clock, and like most judges, looking to wrap up before five. Maggie says a quiet prayer of thanks for the late start today which is probably the only reason she hasn’t called for adjournment yet.

The prosecutor’s witness drones on and on. The jury is bored, and the prosecutor blithely unaware. Jonn isn’t paying attention either but passing notes to Alex. Maggie tenses her jaw. She expects Kara to act impulsively when it comes to her sister, but Jonn? Maggie thought the mental manipulator would have better sense than to plan some harebrained breakout.

Judge Wyatt manages to interrupt the prosecutor.

“This seems like it could go on for a while,” she notes. “I suggest we adjourn for the day. We shall reconvene here tomorrow at nine.” The gavel falls before the prosecutor can raise a stink and with relief the entire courtroom releases a breath.

Maggie shuffles forward and clears her throat. Jonn, tucked into close conversation with Alex, turns slightly. Officers escort Alex away, placing her hands and feet in cuffs for the short walk to the waiting squad car. The powerful, witty Alex Danvers teasing and making conversation over dinner; and Alex Danvers, arms and legs weighted down, chains dragging on the marbled floor. The two images float side by side, unable to be reconciled.

 _We’re going to make this right_.

Maggie clears her throat again and this time Jonn’s eyes snap back, making direct eye contact.

“I wanted to speak with you regarding my final report,” Maggie says. “Specifically, how many copies do you need me to provide in person versus making available electronically?”

_What the hell are you thinking trying to cut this trial short? Don’t you know the only way Alex can ever have a life is to see this through?_

Jonn’s eyes widen, surprise turning to amusement.

“One for myself, the prosecution, judge, and court stenographer,” Jonn says. “I will be prepared to handle additional requests electronically.”

_You know better than most the risk. They need someone to blame._

“And they shall have it,” Maggie says with a sharp nod.

_I have the pieces. I can do it._

A large hand comes to rest on her elbow. “Remember yourself Dr. Sawyer,” he says in a low tone. “Perjury is a serious crime as well.”

With their intense eye contact Maggie knows they are attracting a few stares. With a shudder she breaks the hold.

“I will see you tomorrow, sir.”

“Good evening Dr. Sawyer,” he replies in his deep baritone.

The prosecution wraps just before lunch the next day. Judge Wyatt calls for an extended lunch, with the defense to take over beginning afterwards. Jonn grumbles and Maggie can easily imagine his thoughts.

_Great, a long lunch so the jury will be extra sleepy for our key witnesses._

Nothing like a little extra pressure. The image of Alex in her cuffs keeps coming to mind. This can’t be their future. They are just getting to know each other, getting to know themselves. Anxiously Maggie paces the halls of the courthouse. Arg, she has to pee again. Quickly she heads up to the second floor. No one ever thinks to go up a floor to avoid the lines. Two male police officers stand outside the women’s restroom. One of them tries to bar her from entering.

“Excuse me, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Maggie says.

“Sorry ma’am. We’re watching suspect Alexandra Danvers and have been advised she has to be alone.”

“Well you’re in luck. I am Dr. Sawyer, Ms. Danvers’ treating psychiatrist. I assure you, it’s fine for me to use a public restroom alongside my patient.”

Maggie pushes through before the young cop can react.

From the furthest stall, soft sobs can be heard.

“Alex?” Maggie asks. “Alex, it’s Maggie. Are you in here?”

Silence. The sound of a nose blow.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Alex says. The stall door opens. Her face is a bit red, but she’s covering well. “What are you doing here?”

“Using the restroom like a nervous puppy,” Maggie says. “You?”

“I was told the wine list was to die for,” Alex says.

Good, she’s not so far gone that she can’t still joke. “That’s my girl.”

Alex’s grin fades. “Maggie I’m so scared. Those people…they don’t even know me. They don’t get any of it. How can I trust they will understand?”

The distance between seems to close of its own accord and Maggie presses into Alex, squeezing, inhaling her scent, taking in the solid realness that is the indescribable, perfectly imperfect Alex Danvers.

“That’s my job, sweetie.” Maggie allows herself one last inhale before pulling away. “And I am going to do my damnedest.”

 

Hand on the Bible. Repeat after me. Get comfortable in the awkward witness stand. Recite your credentials. The routine is almost enough for Maggie’s nerves to fade. She can do this. Juries love her. As she easily lists her education, specialties, and certificates, Maggie discretely observes the jury. There’s the young woman taking copious notes. The older man that keeps falling asleep. The middle-aged man, likely mid-level manager, that just wants this over and done. She’s seen them all before. She only has to convince them.

Initial recitation complete, Maggie sits up a bit straighter.

“We’ve all received your report Dr. Sawyer. Extremely thorough,” Jonn says.

“Thank you.”

“Do you mind summarizing highlights for the jury?”

“Absolutely. I was engaged to determine first and foremost the mental state and capacity of Ms. Danvers. Based upon my work with her I conclude that she is fully aware of and cognizant of her actions and the consequences of those actions.”

“In other words, you found Ms. Danvers to be legally sane.”

“That is correct.”

“And do you believe this was her mental state at the time at which she was discovered in the bunker?”

“I do.”

“Thank you. And your secondary objective?”

“Secondarily I was tasked with reconstruction of the events leading up to the deaths in the bunker, including recovery of memories Ms. Danvers appeared to have lost.”

“And what did you discover?”

“Ms. Danvers exhibited a strong grasp on reality and impressive insight into the motives of those around her. However, when we came to the portion of her recall relating to the hours just prior to the massacre, Ms. Danvers’ memory did indeed fail. She could describe only a gap in time, a fog she called it, that ended with her in the bunker, surrounded by her deceased bunker-mates.”

“Someone cynical might assume that Ms. Danvers were lying,” Jonn says.

“I believe her,” Maggie says. “But recognizing many would question her version of events, I conducted a session in which Ms. Danvers was questioned under hypnosis.”

“And what did that reveal?”

“It revealed that Ms. Danvers had experienced one or more dissociative episodes. In the common vernacular, she manifested a discrete second personality.”

An audible gasp from the courtroom. Maggie fixes her eyes firmly on Jonn. _You’re doing great_ he says.

“And what, if anything, did this alternate personality indicate?”

“That Ms. Danvers had been placed in the brig just prior to the inciting incident.”

“In the brig? Why? Was she considered dangerous?”

“Not exactly. But her bunker had been recently invaded by a figure commonly known as Superman. He seems to have considered Al – Ms. Danvers a threat to his leadership.”

“Superman? That’s quite the tall tale,” Jonn says, turning to face the now-rapt jury.

“I thought so as well. At least until I went to the morgue to re-examine some of the bodies.”

“M.E. Julia Walker will speak to the evidence uncovered in re-examination,” Jonn says. “Please tell the jury your final conclusions.”

Maggie takes a deep breath. “I conclude that the stress of the situation caused a second personality to emerge, responsible for the initial suppression of Ms. Danvers memories. She accurately identified and sounded the alarm to her colleagues regarding Superman’s intrusion and for this reason was imprisoned, being freed only after the initial power sources failed. As far as what caused the deaths of her colleagues, Ms. Danvers was not present, and hence to say more would be speculation. Being familiar with Superman’s antics one can imagine a few plausible scenarios. Ms. Danvers likely survived as a result of her incarceration, which kept her safe from the lethal event that claimed so many lives.”

The courtroom is remarkably still. At the oversized table Alex stares down at her hands; possibly happy, ashamed, confused, or a bizarre mix of all three. The prosecutor twists a pen between his fingers, slightly sour expression on his face.

“Thank you, Dr. Sawyer,” Jonn says. With military precision he turns and takes his seat.

Slowly the prosecutor rises, bringing a single sheet of paper with him. He glances from the paper to Maggie a few times. It’s a tactic that might have made Maggie nervous years ago, but she’s feeling good. She performed well. The carefully crafted story fits in neatly within Alex’s narrative, it matches every one of her case notes. It’s an entirely reasonable conclusion to draw.

“What can you tell me about Yvonne Chin?” he asks.

Maggie’s jaw drops.

“What?”

“It’s not a difficult question, Dr. Sawyer. Yvonne Chin?”

“Um, yes. She was a patient of mine. During my time in the Dark Years. I don’t see what –”

“You’re very close to Ms. Danvers are you not?” the prosecutor interrupts. “I noticed you nearly referred to her by first name at one point. And did you not opt to move into the Danvers home?”

“Yes, I move into the Danvers house to aid in my work. It’s a long drive from National City.”

“When did you finish discussing the bunker with Ms. Danvers and begin writing your final report?”

“I don’t recall exactly. Perhaps a couple months ago.”

“Yet you still reside at the Danvers estate?”

“In case follow-up was needed.”

“I’m sure.” The prosecutor glances again at the sheet of paper. “It seems you have a history of forming particularly close attachments with your patients, Dr. Sawyer. I have in hand a note from your colleague regarding an overly friendly relationship between you and Yvonne Chin. You admit that you continue to live in the _same home_ as the accused despite completing your work more than two months ago. It raises some questions. Tell me, have you ever breached your ethical boundaries with a patient Dr. Sawyer?”

Maggie’s chest constricts tightly, the courtroom graying at the edges. Jon reaches into her mind. _Calm_.

He’s right. If this is all they’ve got, Maggie just has to keep it together, she simply needs to retain credibility. The tightness abates enough for Maggie to speak again.

“No,” she says. “I take my ethical boundaries very seriously. I do, however, believe that attachment is a necessary part of the therapeutic process. There are those who disagree of course, including my former colleague during the Dark Years, Dr. Grady, the author of that letter. While I considered the charge spurious, I did step aside in response to his concern. Under his care Yvonne Chin hung herself two weeks later. Since then I’ve witnessed additional instances in which his… less compassionate techniques yielded less than favorable results. My work with Ms. Danvers relies upon a certain level of trust best established by being in a shared space. I have zero regrets about my decision.”

Jon covers a smile with his fist and a few snickers can be heard from the gallery.

“Ah.” The prosecutor recovers quickly. “So you’d be willing to swear before this court that your relationship with Alexandra Danvers has only ever been professional?”

Maggie opens her mouth, but no sound comes forth.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Jonn says, rising smoothly. “Relevance? Dr. Sawyer is testifying in her professional capacity as a medical doctor of psychology and expert in recovering suppressed memories. This line of questioning is unwarranted and, frankly, disrespectful. The question has been asked and Dr. Sawyer has answered.”

“Sustained,” the judge agrees. “Please move on.”


	33. Alex

“Now what?” Alex asks.

Maggie releases a shaky breath and even Jonn seems anxious.

“Now we wait,” he says. “The good news is that the jury liked Maggie –”

“Everyone likes my girl,” Alex says with a wink.

“– and the one-two testimony of Dr. Sawyer and Ms. Walker came off as extremely credible.”

“But the bad news?” Alex asks.

Jonn frowns. “People are unpredictable.”

A knock on the glass indicates their time with Alex is nearly up.

“Do you think we’ll know tomorrow?” Alex asks.

“Only time will tell,” Jonn says. The security officer enters with a wary look at Alex.

“Time to go Danvers,” he says.

“Well guys I’d love to stay but my suite awaits,” Alex says. She manages a smile, but it merely emphasizes the bags under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead. Maggie fights to keep herself from running into Alex’s arms right there. The clang of the jail’s inner doors opening and closing echoes in succession down the tiled corridor.

“How does it look?” Maggie asks once they’re alone again. “You know what the jury was thinking. What are our chances?”

“Tough to say. People are prone to sway depending upon whose talking. And they have all night to think on everything that’s been presented.”

Jonn watches Maggie, taking in her suppressed sigh.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asks. “We talked about your testimony. It was perfect.”

“I feel silly saying it aloud.”

“I don’t think it was selfish,” Jonn responds gently. “You found a way to help the one you love and you’re helping to ensure the future stays safe.”

“But what if…” Maggie squirms. It’s a possibility that’s always been there, something that haunts her the closer she comes to the possibility of a future with Alex.

_What if she did kill all those people?_ Or even some of them? The needs of a just society and closure for the family members of those that died surely outweigh her own petty desire. _What if I haven’t done the right thing?_

Jonn stands, tucking his hands behind his back. “Alex and I had an interesting conversation this morning,” he says. “I asked her if she wanted me to restore the memories when this all over.”

“She said no.”

“She did. She said the not-knowing has turned her into this version of herself. Specifically, into an Alex that a Maggie Sawyer might be in love with,” he adds with a smile. “But that to restore those memories would undo all that progress. That it would change the narrative she has constructed. Change her sense of identity.”

“Guess she was listening after all,” Maggie says, a flush of pride warming her chest.

“But after laying out all the reasons she did not choose to remember, Alex told me _Maggie will want to know_. She believed that unless you knew, there would always be something keeping you at arms-length. Keeping the two of you apart.”

“She said that?”

“She did. So with that in mind…” Jonn turns, his sharp eyes piercing through Maggie’s mind, implicitly knowing her thoughts. “Would you like to know? You will not be able to unsee what I show you, so please consider your response carefully.”

_Yes._ A world of yes. But the truth is, there is no winning. Alex is right. With this unknown there will always be a distance, some element of Alex that Maggie just doesn’t quite get. But with knowledge comes the danger that Maggie won’t be able to see Alex the same ever again. So which is it? The certainty of distance never to be resolved, or the risk that the woman she loves is not the woman she has become?

“Show me,” Maggie says.

Jonn nods and solemnly reaches forward, cupping Maggie’s hand and raising it to his forehead. His eyes flash with color for a moment before closing, and silently the bare jailhouse room vanishes into a dark room, almost like a storage facility. Maggie moves forward without action, following like a shadow as her host inhales calmly.

 

_“Who goes there?” Hank adjusts the firearm. “Declare yourself! This bunker is property of DEO!” The back entrance should have been sealed tight. There is no way someone could have entered unless they had a major security breach._

_“Hank!” calls a familiar voice._

_“Declare yourself!”_

_“It’s me, Jerimiah Danvers.” The stout, powerful figure grins, hands up in the air, fingers wiggling in greeting. “Can’t a father drop in to check on his daughters?”_

_“You shouldn’t be here,” Hank says. “This vault is secured. That’s an emergency exit only.”_

_“I’m afraid not anymore,” Jerimiah says. “Tunnel collapsed behind me. You’ll have to open from the front.” Jerimiah strides forward, a bit overly confident for a new arrival, possibility just bluster. But something is off. A silence. It takes a moment to place it. Jerimiah Danvers’ thoughts can’t be seen._

Jonn’s arm holds Maggie steady. Her knees wobble but with Jonn’s support she remains upright.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know what you saw,” Jonn says. “But it should have been a piece of the puzzle.”

“I still don’t know what happened though,” Maggie says. “I saw Alex’s father breaking in, but nothing else.”

“I passed on the memories. They aren’t your memories, so it’s not as simple as recalling what happened and knowing all at once. You’ll have to wait for the memories to trigger.” He walks to the door, but glances back at Maggie one last time. “You’ll catch a glimpse every now and again until they become your memories. With the trial, I imagine you’ll have access to them all within the next day.”

 

“All rise for the Honorable Justice Wyatt!”

In tandem the courtroom stands. Alex turns, trying and failing to discretely look over her shoulder. Jonn tugs on her elbow, whispering something. Maggie’s heart beats high in her chest and the room feels unusually warm. Too much coffee this morning, she thinks. She shouldn’t have had that second cup but having barely slept last night it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hopefully the jury won’t need too long before arriving at a verdict. Or maybe not? Maggie can never remember if it’s supposed to be better or worse for the jury to take their time.

Jonn seems to notice her gaze as his eyes flick over to Maggie, causing Alex to finally spot her in the crowd, their heads still tucked in to close conversation.

 

_Alex smiles and steps away from Hank._

_“Why so worried?” she asks._

_“I’m not worried.”_

_“Oh yeah? Crinkle,” Alex retorts, poking at Kara’s forehead._

_“Damnit,” Kara mutters. “Ok maybe a little worried. What were you talking about with Hank?”_

_“Nothing important.”_

_“Alex, please tell me.” Kara searches her sister’s face. She drops her voice. “Everyone is being so weird since Jerimiah got here. I mean, I thought we were all happy about that? But he’s off talking to Lena behind closed doors and you’re talking to Hank, and everyone seems super on edge.”_

_“It’s just complicated,” Alex hedges. “He’s new, we’re trying to make sure he’s on the same page as everyone here.”_

_“Why wouldn’t he be?”_

_“You just told me yesterday about what he used to do. How he took your blood, how he hurt you?”_

_“That was then. Years ago, working under a different DEO philosophy.”_

_Alex frowns, quickly wiping a hand across her mouth. “Let’s hope so,” she says._

Judge Wyatt issues jury instructions in her usual clipped tone. Silently the jurors shuffle back out to begin deliberations. There’s a moment of silence before Judge Wyatt strikes the gavel again, standing to retire to her chambers. The crowd murmurs, some people staying put, others standing to stretch, and most heading for the wide double doors to chat in the corridor. Maggie works her way forward to the defense table.

Alex swipes a glance at Jonn. _Is it ok for us to talk?_ Imperceptibly he nods.

“It’s good to see you,” Alex says. Her eyes dart back and forth on the tiled floor. “How’s K doing?”

“She seems to be doing alright. A bit anxious but I’ve been texting her updates.”

“Thank you,” Alex says. Maggie can’t help but marvel yet again at how Alex can possibly be worried about Kara when her own life hangs in the balance.

Jonn regards his charge fondly, seemingly with a similar thought. “You’re a brave woman, Alex.”

 

_“Alex!”_

_Sam’s thin face is drawn with worry. She gestures Alex over to the corner. Kara is right, people are starting to act weird. Alex and Hank have been busy trying to discern Jerimiah’s possible motives, and it seems they are not the only ones reacting to the newest member of the bunker._

_“Your father, Jerimiah, he told Lena,” Sam whispers._

_“Told Lena what?”_

_“About the modifications. She knows about Kara.”_

_“Lena didn’t know before?”_

_Sam shakes her head. “She knew there was testing which included Kara, that’s part of the DEO record. But results were erased at some point. The assumption has always been that the experiments failed. Lena’s always found the anomaly that Kara survived fascinating, but that was all she knew.”_

_“Shit.”_

_“It gets worse.”_

_“I don’t care if they know about me,” Alex says. In fact, that might be for the best. It would keep some of the heat off Kara._

_“Only Kara and I know about that,” Sam says. “Jerimiah has convinced Lena to restart the experiments. I don’t know why, but he really wants the go-ahead for full study access to Kara.”_

_“Kara?”_

_Alex doesn’t even wait for Sam’s response, she’s already running full-speed towards the lab._

 

“I need some air,” Maggie says.

These visions are becoming more disruptive, toppling in one after the other, shifting perspectives and muddling the situation even more than Maggie would have believed. While the visual and auditory aspects are fleeting, blipping in and out of focus like an errant fly; the sensations, the crawling feeling on Maggie’s skin lingers, taking time for her to process.

She rushes to the restroom, heaving over the toilet, but nothing comes. Of course not, for she’s not actually feeling ill, this is merely an echo of what Alex felt, possibly heightened by some of the present-day anxiety. The small stall spins and leaning against the wall, Maggie braces herself for the next onslaught.

 

_Lena is already in the lab with Kara. She turns, a glimmer in her eye I’ve only seen once before. It’s a dangerous look._

_“Don’t worry Alex, I wouldn’t dare hurt your sister. But you must see how important this is.”_

_“You don’t get it. It’s not going to work,” Alex says. “Kara, come over to me.”_

_“I trust Lena,” Kara says. “We’ve talked through what’s allowed and what’s not. I think this could be good for everyone.”_

_“It’s too dangerous.”_

_“Alex, you’re a progressive scientist!” Lena says. “I don’t understand your reluctance. We can improve the human race.”_

_“Humans have already ruined so much with the power they have.”_

_“I know things were not done well in the past,” Lena says. “Jerimiah has told me all about the agony he experienced with kryptonite.”_

_“Kryptonite?”_

_“Yes, DEO’s attempt to control his powers. We’re synthesizing a variety of it now. One that should help us understand the extent of your abilities and replicate it.”_

_“Good news,” Jerimiah says, materializing directly behind Lena. “Your red kryptonite works like a charm.” Lena’s head twists sharply in his hands, unnaturally._

_Kara’s eyes go wide. “Lena!” It’s almost worse for the complete lack of blood. Kara dives to the ground, holding her friend with a sob._

_“Move away Alex. I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” Jerimiah rumbles. He looks like Alex’s father on the surface, but it’s clear that whatever ashes the DEO sent to the Danvers house so many years ago is in fact all that remains of the father she knew._

_“Don’t touch Kara,” Alex says. The cold enters from the edges of her fingertips, filling in to the center until she is made of ice, until she is Reign. A matching dark grin on Jerimiah’s face indicates the transition has not gone unnoticed._

_He lunges forward and the glass panel shatters as they tumble into the hallway. Someone fires a gun but neither even pause as the bullets ricochet off their impenetrable skin._

_The useless gunfire increases as more are alerted to the fight. A voice deep inside Reign wants to tell them to stop, point out that they are only hurting themselves. Superman swats the gun out of the arms of one bystander, smashing his skull against the wall, leaving a smear of vibrant red. Another goes down from a redirected bullet._

_Alex holds Reign back, moving the fight away from the others, trying to keep them safe. But it’s weakening Reign, and against Superman she can’t win this way. Alex has to let go._

_Reign emerges fully with a roar, a lifetime’s worth of unexpressed rage fueling her forward, blind to everything around as she seeks only to destroy what hurt her, to ensure he never hurts anyone again._

This time when Maggie heaves over the toilet she does vomit, the smell of brain matter fresh in her nostrils. Her forehead is clammy with sweat. Over the sink she rinses her face and slowly the color returns. Asking for the memories was a mistake, she thinks. It’s too much. Too violent, too real, too close to home. This is the woman she loves, fighting for her sister’s life. It’s unclear how many might have died in that initial battle, but at least a handful of casualties can be attributed to it. Though thankfully, none that Alex directly harmed.

Maggie blots her face with the wet paper towel again. She squeezes the residual over the sink, squishy, surprisingly delicate paper tearing in her hands.

 

_Her arm juts forward and Superman lurches in surprise. It turns out the interior of a human, enhanced or not, is made up of all the same soft, squishy organs as ordinary beings. Reign twists the hand protruding from Superman’s chest and with a painful wheeze he sags forward._

_Alex drops to the ground as blood pulses from the gaping chest wound in a slower and slower rhythm before stopping entirely. There’s no sound but shadows surround her, judgement, a precursor to her future in hell. Kara breaks through the circle to embrace her sister._

_“What have I done?” Alex asks. It’s too awful to contemplate._

_“You saved me,” Kara says, squeezing so tight it should hurt, except nothing comes close to the pain that feels as if Alex wrenched her own heart from her chest. “Sometimes we have to do horrible things for the greater good,” Kara says._

_“We can’t let her do this!” someone yells._

_“He would have killed us all!” another retorts._

_“She’s clearly dangerous. She can’t stay here.” On this, it seems, everyone agrees._

_“Lock her up. DEO designed the brig with enhanced humans in mind. It will hold her until we get to the surface.”_

Jonn meets Maggie in the corridor, taking in her disoriented state with a single look. Maggie can’t meet his eye.

“Will you want to see Alex after the verdict is read?” Jonn asks.

“Yes.” The answer is automatic. There is no way Maggie could not see Alex, even with the image of Alex’s hand twisting in the internal cavity of Superman fresh in her mind. How much was Alex and how much was Reign? And does it even matter? Her Alex has always been angry underneath. It’s the source of that beautiful sadness she carries, her impossible stubbornness. Her Alex is also a fighter, one to protect others, especially her sister. If Superman hadn’t died in that moment, Maggie has no doubt he would have killed most, if not all, of the people in that bunker before someone opened the seal.

“Jury is back!” someone calls down the hall. Organized mayhem takes over as the loitering crowd rushes back to claim seats.

 

_Alex drifts in and out of consciousness, the clear silver liquid provided by Hank helping to pass the time in slumber. Kara appears often, but she seems more an extension of the vague dreams Alex keeps having. Voices argue in the distance._

_“She’s a danger to all of us!”_

_They must be talking about Alex again. They’re not wrong._

_Sam appears, her cheeks wet. She won’t explain why but keeps saying sorry as if Alex understands. Hank remains stoic. Kara’s visits become more animated. Her cheeks flush and hands wave about. Finally, she crouches down, addressing Alex in a low whisper._

_“Sam told them I’m the same as you. I can only stay out here if I take the red kryptonite. Lena’s notes say it will control my powers. They’re scared of us, but it’s going to be ok. I don’t care if the kryptonite hurts. I’ll take it as long as I have to so I can protect you.”_

 

“Welcome back,” Judge Wyatt says once the jury and gallery are quietly seated. “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have Your Honor.” The forewoman clears her throat. “We the jury, find the defendant –”

 

_“No!!!” Alex screams. “Kara! Stop!”_

_It’s all too late. Much, much too late. She should have said something earlier, asked Hank to stop the medication that dulled her senses._

_The primal scream echoes through the concrete bunker, a scream Alex realizes only later emanates from her own throat. The ground rumbles with steel footsteps. Bits of rubble fall from the ceiling. There’s almost nothing that can stop Kara when she sets her mind to something. The mob in front of the brig are the first to go, their firearms clattering uselessly to the ground. Kara’s veins light up in furious red like a thing possessed._

_She should have known. She did know, saw it through those hazy dreams, the way the red kryptonite wore down Kara’s patience, her restraint, the way it made her less human in the same manner as their father. Heat vision creates irregular waves of light that coincide with the cries of those still alive._

_Finally, the scream ends, and fully depleted of oxygen, Alex passes out, forehead pressed against the bars of her cage._

“Not guilty,” the jury forewoman concludes.

For a moment Maggie can’t breathe, as if she’d been the one holding that scream that seemed to go on for hours. The room erupts into noise all at once. Cameras flash, reporters lean across the barrier, hoping to capture initial reactions on tape or an off-the-cuff quote. Jonn embraces Alex, whose open-mouthed stare slowly turns into an astonished grin. The prosecutor begins collecting his things and Judge Wyatt observes her courtroom calmly, speaking in quiet tones to the bailiff as she signs the final order. 

“Maggie!” Alex shouts. Her mouth moves but Maggie can’t hear the words.

 

_“She’s a hero,” Jonn says. “Or at least, that’s what we need to happen.”_

_Alex holds Kara’s head in her lap, stroking her hair. Kara hasn’t moved since the massacre where she lost control. Alex isn’t even sure if she can hear them talking._

_“Or what? The end of the world?” Alex asks in a light tone. All that matters is this world, here in her arms. Her baby sister that has lost so much these past several days._

_“Yes,” Hank says seriously. “The Dark Years were inconvenient, but the next threat will be worse. We are at a crisis point as a species, doomed with our own destruction. Kara Danvers can save us.”_

_Alex ignores his gaze, continuing to watch Kara for any sign of waking._

_“Kara has saved my life twice. Without her, I wouldn’t have lived to see the Dark Years. And again, without her, I wouldn’t have lived to leave this bunker. If you’re asking me to return the favor, my answer is yes.”_

_The answer appears to satisfy Hank._

_“But it’s not that simple,” Alex continues. “I know Kara. This will haunt her. I don’t know if she can ever move past it to become this hero you seem to want. Long after we leave, both Kara and I will still be here, re-living everything.”_

_“You’re right. You need a fresh start. It’s not an impossible ask.” He rolls up his sleeves as the meaning sinks in. Gone. No guilt, no memory of crushing the heart of her father, of the screams and cries of those who fell. To erase everything from those days…_

_Alex turns to Hank with a nod. “Do it. Then when they open the front seal, get Kara out. I’ll deal with the repercussions.”_


	34. Epilogue: One Year Later

Alex waves a towel as Maggie enters the bar, preparing her a whisky sour that’s finished by the time Maggie crosses the dimly lit room.

“You’re early,” Alex says, leaning across the bar. Maggie willingly offers a kiss in exchange for the drink.

“My five o’clock canceled. How’s business?”

Alex shrugs, but she can’t hide the smirk. “Crushing it,” she says, with typical modesty.

In fairness, the dive bar has been doing brisk business since Alex Danvers, formerly accused murderess, returned to her hometown and purchased the place. She’s renovated the Hideaway and renamed it, against Maggie’s recommendation, to the Bunker.

But Midvale residents seem to love the teasingly self-aware new owner and have flocked to the Bunker’s happy hours and karaoke nights. Certainly, the addition of a dedicated chef to class up the menu hasn’t hurt. For her part, Alex clearly loves everything about running the bar, from bartending to schmoozing to finances to greeting Maggie with a drink after work.

Maggie had worried about making the transition to small town psychiatric practice, but with dozens of patients more than happy to trade in the hour-long commute to National City in favor of working with a prestigious doctor locally, her panel filled up quickly. The office she shares with a couple other doctors offers a nice bit of camaraderie.

The whiskey burns pleasantly on the way down, softening the rough edges of the day.

“Where’s Kara?” Maggie asks. “Isn’t this usually her shift?”

Alex’s eyes sparkle as she leans in close. “You haven’t seen the news?” she asks. “Aliens tried to invade National City. Kara drove them out. They’re calling her a hero. Supergirl,” Alex adds with pride. “My baby sister. She saved thousands of people, Mags. How incredible is that?”

_Not half as incredible as you_ , Maggie wants to say. Not half as remarkable as taking the fall for another.

She’s thought about the trial so many times since the day Alex walked free, since the knowledge of what actually happened in that bunker became clear. While they’ve never discussed it, a part of her wonders if Alex knows the truth, knows that she played a much smaller role in the massacre than most believe. For despite being acquitted of all charges, the whispers will follow Alex her entire life. She’ll never receive the accolades that come so easily to Kara, no matter how many good deeds she performs. It’s a sacrifice she made willingly, one Maggie knows Alex would make again in a heartbeat to protect someone she loves.

Alex doesn’t care about the glory, she will never appear on the nightly news to be lauded as a hero. That’s a role only one of the Danvers gets to play, and Alex gave up her chance so Kara could be the one in the spotlight.

Alex’s features grow fuzzy as tears fill Maggie’s eyes. She blinks them away.

“I know,” Alex says, misunderstanding Maggie’s emotion. “I’m so proud of Kara.”

_No silly, you_.

Maggie reaches across the bar, pulling Alex’s face close enough to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“I love you, Alex Danvers,” Maggie says. “To me, you will always be the hero.”


End file.
